Rochade
by Thiveril
Summary: Rochade is the only non-aggressive move in chess; one single swap changes everything and nothing is like it was before. In the great game of intrigue, Wanda Maximoff, formerly known as the Scarlet Witch, finds herself a pawn, with the Avengers her only allies. But what if they are pawns as well?
1. Prologue

_Hello everyone, thank you for getting past the summary. Bear with me a little longer, if you please._  
_I had the idea for this fanfiction going around in my head for a few months now and finally decided to write it down. I can't say precisely how long it will be as I'm adjusting and rewriting the storyboard when a new idea strikes me._  
_What you can expect from this piece of fanfiction: I will go in-depth into the characters and take my time with dialogue-heavy chapters. The romance will have a long build-up and action will be thrown in as necessary. The plot itself will be rather complex and intrigue-heavy so if that's something that interests you, this story is for you._

_Many thanks to Starcrier for her tremendous help as beta_

* * *

How could human worth be measured? Was it self-awareness, his potential to develop into something greater? Or was it his ability to form a stable society, revel in his accomplishments, express his progress in various forms that culture had to offer … or was it simply that he was following his genetic imprint? Also, the worth of a man living in his society was a factor to be included, his ability to live by these rules and standards, to function and to enrich it through work, art or the production of new members of the society. To contribute – that was important, that had meaning. Human nature dictated that there was a need to feel individual, but an orderly society made it possible. Feeling useful. Feeling needed. Feeling like a part of it.

If so, she was not only failing as a member of society, but as a human being as well. No wonder that, since she wasn't exactly a human by the strictest definition of some supremacists and bigots alike.  
Well, at least that's what the doctors wanted to tell her in the mental hospital for months. Sometimes, she believed them, sometimes she doubted, sometimes she felt manipulated when she was at her weakest … and then again, she knew she didn't have any other perspective anymore, no chance whatsoever.

Wanda laid her head on the heavy, wooden table, her nose only inches away from the pills that formed the bulk of her medication and the glass of water. How quaint, although the water didn't sparkle, she only saw the shade of her dark hair and pale face mirrored in the glass. She knew that she really had to take those pills. Otherwise, she would turn into a pathetic little creature who would frequently curl into a ball, sobbing and filled with self-pity. The thought alone to be in such a sorry state again stirred feelings of nausea. But the security of the medication didn't come without a price … feelings in general had become rather rare, as if she was only a hollow shell. Indeed, she couldn't remember her last adrenalin rush, the last time she had felt anything but a touch of sorrow and a good, healthy portion of self-loathing. She wasn't even able to feel sexual arousal, for Christ's sake! Not even her body wanted to have anything to do with her.

And there it was again. Whine, whine, whine. She should just finally take those pills and start another day, trying to make that pile of broken glass which was her life a little better. There were many burned bridges in her life that weren't even worth attending anymore, but she had to tell herself over and over again that it could be so much worse. She had been far worse before her stay with her mentor; everything she had to do was to was to roll up her sleeves and start living again. That was so much easier said than done.

"What are you doing?" How strange. Agatha Harkness' voice did sound a little shrill. She rushed into the kitchen, placing two heavy books on the table, which Wanda more felt than actually saw. She didn't even raise her head, instead staring morosely at the glass.

"Contemplating.", she answered in an almost faraway voice, her gaze still firmly on the glass of water instead of her surroundings. The old Witch patted her shoulder in a supporting, understanding manner, but it felt rushed nonetheless. It now occurred to Wanda that something was amiss, so she raised her head and looked at Agatha quizzically. The old woman's friendly face was overshadowed by hardly concealed anxiety. Even her clothes, newly made but in the design of the Nineteenth Century, were only hastily buttoned and tied. Normally, the witch was quite approachable and very patient, but now her whole appearance suggested immediate hurry.

"'Tis not the time. Do you remember that Archer Boy?"

"Agatha." Wanda sighed in disbelief and rose from her chair. Although she didn't consider herself an overly tall woman, she still dwarfed her mentor by a head's length. That difference in height never failed to bother her. "This "Boy" could be my father in regards of age … err, if he had tried really hard. Yes, I remember him. We lost touch right before the Chitauri-Invasion. What is wrong?"

"Everything. Here, take these." With these words, Agatha pushed the two books she brought – grimoires, if Wanda wasn't mistaken – into her hands and pulled, almost dragged her out of the kitchen.

"The moment we talked about? It is there. Nobody is prepared for this. The Jotun stirred, but it wasn't enough. It is now up to us to seal the gates and hold the line until they are ready, until they are all ready." Agatha walked with haste, pulling her student with her while walking out of the door, onto the streets of New Salem. But the peaceful city in its picturesque landscape, lovingly modeled and built after the picture of ancient European cities, was in turmoil. The people, sorcerers all, disfigured, beastly and human alike where in a hurry, leading children an elders into the houses, fortifying positions within the streets, raising and reinforcing wards. The sky, once beautifully bright in the rising morning sun, was now colored in a foreboding, dreadful black, far darker than any cloud of rain could tint, darker than a starless night. The mere sight of it was enough to let Wanda's heart sink into unknown depths, but she was mercilessly pulled away by the old Witch, who didn't stop in her explanations.

"Avoid him you can, fight if you have no other choice, assist to the best of your ability - but don't hide. The time for hiding has come and gone. Don't come back here, for this is not a safe haven anymore. Do you hear me?" She paused for a moment, stopped in her course and watched the grave signs that hovered over her home like the Sword of Damocles. She stood there in silence with the young woman by her side, only to shake her head and lead her on her way again. It seemed like there was not even time for this sentimentality. She stopped before an elaborately drawn circle – a thaumathurgic circle, as Wanda knew all too well. This one for example was for instant transportation to an unknown location, which was pinpointed through a link of some sort. Sometimes it was a person, sometimes something more abstract, like an idea. These kinds of circles took weeks to make … how long had Agatha been planning this? And why on earth could she barely breathe with a painful heaviness weighed her down? It was almost as if she was dragged down by invisible chains, unable to move, unable to … do what? Go away while her adopted home burned? Leave the only person that accepted her for who she was?

"Agatha, I can't do that. I don't even know what you are talking about." Even now, the old sorceress stayed true to her enigmatic nature. Everything she said tended to make sense just after something important had happened. Staying away from New Salem was clear, but it also meant that she was to be sent away. Why? What was this all about? "I mean, look at me! I'm a mess! Why … what's going on? What's happening? What do you want me to do? Why ..." Only now she noticed that her voice was coarse and wavering while a sharp pain surged through her chest and throat, threatening her to get choked up. She also felt tears burning in the corner of her eye. Not now. It took all her strength and discipline not to break into tears, and she didn't even know where they came from. "You can't … why don't you send Nicholas? I'm not ready for this." Why did Agatha not send her competent, adventurous and decisive son? Why her? Why not him? Why couldn't she stay here? She looked Agatha Harkness straight in the eye, barely able to hold back tears and repeated the words from the bottom of her heart. "I am not ready for this."

"You will be." Agatha smiled warmly, reassuring her student before her features hardened in concentration and she waved her hand to weave the spell. "You have to."

With these words, she pushed Wanda into the circle, who was nearly overwhelmed by the sheer force of the spell, consumed by a white flames and cold fire that spirited her away.

Agatha however turned around, looking over the vast, rocky lands she herself had shaped for a long time; when she saw the opportunity in this New World, she couldn't resist. The Library was built in baroque style, an old favorite of hers, as were many of the buildings. There was this well decorated with an ugly dove-figurine she adored nevertheless, in one alley she even had managed to put a Blackhead's Crest from Riga on the wall, lined in silver, shining once a day only in the light of the midday sun. This hidden beauty suited New Salem well.  
She had kept this place hidden, fertilized and protected from the outside world with her bare hands, magic and iron will alone. And now she looked down upon her city, her home for so long, the people who trusted her leadership … and she saw the first columns of smoke rising, felt in her bones and spine that spells were slung. It had already begun. She had to join the others, her people and hope that her plans would unfold as she hoped. Suddenly, she felt weary.  
What if it did not? Wasn't it a little late for doubt? It certainly was – there was no way to stop this chain of events. She had prepared for years, and this was the best she could do. So she squared her shoulders and kept going, walked towards the battlefield. Death would certainly reap today. But only today.

"Your turn, Allfather."


	2. Opening move

"Yes, yes, I'm sure they'll be thrilled to wait for another hour or two. Open up the ... eh, some Latour, but not the really good one. Would be a waste." Pepper's only answer consisted of rather frosty silence, and even though he talked with her over the phone, he could picture her disapproving frown all too well.  
"Come to think of it, don't offer them wine. Offer them some champagne, because we are good friends, yadda yadda yadda." Tony Stark loosened his tie and glanced over his shoulder. He only saw the back of Clint Barton, sitting in his chair and piloting the aircraft. It seemed that they sent high-ranking assassins to pick him up nowadays, instead of Phil Coulsons.

What was wrong with those S.H.I.E.L.D. guys? Coulson at least had had the decency to disappear after handing him important things, but Barton? Hell-bent on getting him into that aircraft before he could finish his coffee, expression all stern.  
There was no chance to get some privacy here, so he turned around and spoke into his phone in a hushed voice.

"Listen, Pepper ... do I have to? I mean, you run the company as well. You don't need me for thi ... yeah, I know, important people. Can't you just tell them that I'm on, ya know, hero business? Now that you mention it, I AM on hero business, saving their asses since 2009." He winced when he was immediately called out on his whining. This conversation was going so sideways.

"I'll call you on when I actually know what Fury wants. Is there something ... Agatha Who? Never heard of her." Who was this Agatha-woman Pepper kept talking about? She kept insisting that said old lady asked to talk to him specifically, but seemed also unable to to hold the line for more than twenty minutes. He wasn't quite sure why Pep thought this call to be so important and kept reminding him with notes about the forces of destiny and the like. Ugh, destiny. In the great encyclopedia of the real world, that word labeled right before "dumbass" for a reason. But really, did he have to make himself available for every old lady who lost her cat now?

Somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that Pepper was a little tense today. He had to make it up sometime soon. Just not now, no time, no time. Out of the window he could see the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier, which meant that he had to conclude his chat. Why was he here again? Right, because his esteemed colleague had dragged him into this, whatever it was. Not his primary problem right now, that place was currently occupied by Pepper.

"Listen, I've got this recipe from my father. I'll make you some cheesy stuff and tell you what all this was about, okay? Fondue you later." With that, he hung up and turned again to Hawkeye, who was apparently in the middle of the landing procedure. He had known that guy to be rather easygoing and even a little cocky at times, but now he seemed overly serious. Pepper didn't seem the only one on edge today.

"My, aren't we in a jolly mood? You gonna tell me what's wrong or do I have to wait for Fury?"

"I don't know what this is about." Barton didn't even spare him a glance, apparently focused on his console. Emphasis on "apparently". Tony knew that if he stared long and intently enough, he would come clean. The presence of a Stark was just that good.

"I'd tell you, but I honestly don't know." ... or not. At least Barton tried to smile, but he only managed a grimace. Still no answer, so it was time for the big guns, which meant teasing him with his quasi-heterosexual-lifepartner. Cheap trick, cheap way to coax anything out of someone, but Barton kinda had it coming now.

"Issues with Natasha?"

"What the fuck? Why does everyone think …"  
"So there are issues with Natasha."

"There are never issues with Natasha. She is completely issue-free, you know."

"But you mention 'issue' and 'Natasha' in the same sentence."

Barton's expression turned from mildly irritated to high-quality eye-rolling. "Oh, so you caught me there. " He managed even a half-amused smirk. Landing procedure complete, that Agent was still back to his own self, but lightened up a bit and wasn't uncharacteristically stoic anymore. Tony concluded that he had done his one good deed for the day and mentally crossed it off.

The atmosphere in the conference room was approaching zero steady and fast. When Tony stepped through the door, the only two occupants merely nodded to him and Clint Barton in respect, but otherwise went on their business, which was ... hard to say, actually. Steve Rogers sat at the table, idly beating the devil's tattoo on the table area with one hand. The other arm was kept safely out of sight for whatever reason. Hair and clothes were still very old-fashioned, but to be perfectly honest: Tony couldn't imagine the Captain in any other attire, nor in any other way. That man was simply born in the last century, but right now he looked as if all these decades were resting on his mighty shoulders, dragging him down mercilessly.

He even seemed a little paler than usual. At a second glance, Steve left his other arm hanging, as if it weren't part of his body anymore. Tony was no stranger to injuries, and he knew it when he saw one: The powerful Captain America, stopped by an injured arm? Strange, and somehow rather impossible.

Natalia Romanova leaned at the wall looking out of the window, arms folded before her chest. Her hair had grown since their last encounter with the Chitauri and Loki, and she now wore it in a ponytail, radiating a certain cold and professional countenance. She was also the only one in her "uniform", or rather her tight-fit catsuit. Very tight-fit indeed. Dressed for battle. What battle though? That remained to be seen.

These were his companions from their epic fight in Manhattan. He hadn't seen them for a just few months, and yet they all seemed a little more distant than before. Did they know what Fury wanted? Or did something change? What happened?

"Where's Banner?" Ah, so apparently, Captain Rogers had decided to start a conversation, while Barton silently sat down. It wasn't surprising that Steve held him responsible for the last team member's presence, since Banner had taken up residence in the old Stark Tower - which was now rebuilt into an Avenger's Tower – and pursued his own scientific interests.

"Dunno. He left yesterday. I didn't expect him back until the day after tomorrow."

Steve gave him a black, accusing look, but Tony shrugged it off.  
"He left a note. He does this from time to time. Free human being, free country, he can go wherever he want. He will show up when he is needed." Sheesh, it was high time for these guys to finally trust Bruce Banner with his anger management, which had proven to be more succesful than initially believed. Whenever this planet was under attack, the hulk would gear up, holding the front, the attackers merely a tiny annoyance. He had proven himself just once, but he had proven himself when it really counted. He would prove himself again should something like Manhattan happen again.

"I'm sure he will." Nick Fury's voice sounded grave and firm, while he strode into the room. But he didn't do it casually - nothing Nick Fury did was ever casual. He was always intense, always stern, always imposing. But today, something was different, and Tony was certain that it had something to do with the white, unassuming box he carried. Placing it on the table, Fury stepped back to address all the attending Avengers. That name still sounded a little strange to Tony's ears, not to mention dramatic. Corny dramatic.

"This was placed on our landing deck half an hour ago ..." Tony didn't even try to restrain himself.

"Nice Job. I mean, wow. Your cloaking device sucks." But for once, just this once, Nick Fury's look was intimidating enough to silence Tony Stark. There was an uncomfortable pause before Steve chimed in, his voice thick with wariness.

"It's a head." Of course it was a head. A white box. Either head or cake. Obvious. Head was more likely in their line of work though.

"I can still smell the blood." Damn ... he had never had any doubt that she had made quite a name for herself as an assassin, but that was super-creepy. Almost as creepy as putting a head in a box on the table. Seriously, what the hell?

Director Fury ignored them, produced some latex gloves and put them on in what seemed like an eternity. Stark was rather sure that the director already knew whose head was in the box, had checked it three times back and forth for bombs, mines or other pleasantries ... he was just building up drama. For all he knew, it could be the head of the President of the United States in that box.  
He was wrong. It was worse. So much worse.

Fury carefully lifted the object out of the box and placed it on the table in a tentative, almost gentle manner. The head was a little large for an average human, cut off raggedly by an unskilled hand or with a dull blade - or both. The hair was black and unkempt, the expression of the man's face peaceful, as if he had just closed his eyes to sleep. His complexion was in a greenish hue, but his features ... it couldn't be. There was no way this could happen. This was a trick, a cruel joke. It was virtually impossible.

"Bruce Banner."

"No." Nick Fury's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "The Hulk."

* * *

I am Sif, Battlemaiden of Asgard.

As the smoke of battle cleared, our army stood victorious at long last. The Dark Elves had brought war upon Asgard, their numbers equaling thousands. It was a struggle; at times, I felt like we would lose, sometimes I felt too exhausted to think. From time to time, I was just tired of the carnage on both sides, of the death of Asgardians and Elves alike. But I never lost hope.

I didn't know exactly what happened, and neither did I care at this point in time. When all seemed lost, Thor emerged as the glorious hero. It didn't matter that he had help from some human girl, it didn't matter that he ostensibly required the assistance of his thrice-cursed brother. There was only one thing that mattered: a battle was fought today, a battle that was desperate survival at first, but turned into something beautiful. Rains of blood came down upon me, my spear sang until its melody was dulled from death and blood, and I reveled in the glory of it, all of it.

I don't care that it took trickery from behind the lines. I don't care that a dishonored prince tried to redeem himself. All I care about is victory, and by the force of Destiny, victory was sweet indeed.  
Now I was proud to stand in Odin's Golden Hall, the Warrior's Three behind me, my armour battered, my body sore and hurt, my spear notched, but I couldn't help but smile in happiness while I maintained a respectful distance between Thor and Odin. Here, in the aftermath of battle, lasting decisions would be made, and I was eager to witness it all.

They were the most important men in my life whom I trusted implicitly. When I watched Thor train for the first time, although almost a child, I was awestruck. With his flowing, golden hair and his imposing physique he looked like the most powerful man alive to me. I instantly wanted to be like him. So I snuck into the training chambers and started to fumble with the practice weapons, nearly hurting myself. Thor had secretly been watching me and laughed wholeheartedly at my feeble attempts. But then, he looked deep into my eyes, testing my resolve.

I held his gaze.

It was at this very moment, where the amused flicker in his eyes vanished and he took my hands into his, only to place them on the spear with the rough and knowing touch of a seasoned fighter.  
"You have to hold it like this, or it will slip from your grasp." he said, without mockery but with respect.

I had loved him from that day on as my future king, as the man who supported me and as the only man to believe in me when no one else would.  
One day, the mockery of the men I was training with took finally its toll. I had broken my sword in a clumsy swing and was a laughingstock for everyone, so I had withdrawn to a secluded spot in the palace in misery, to shed tears about my failure. It was then when the Allfather himself silently sat beside me.

"Why are you crying?" I remember his gentle voice vividly, even to this day. But at that point, I was determined to be deeply disappointed.

"I broke my sword. I will never be a warrior." I sobbed, but the Allfather just smiled and chose to impart a small fraction of his wisdom to me.

"The weapon does not make a warrior. His skill does. Don't let yourself be judged by small-minded men. It is your honour and nobility that will make you outshine them all someplace, sometime." With these words, Odin took my childish doubts away and replaced them with strength. I had respected him before, but from that day on, I loved him as my King.

Thus I was shocked when I saw the fire of wrath in Thor's eyes and the bitterness emanated by Odin. They were in the middle of a heated argument, as terrible as the one before he banished Thor to Midgard.

"It wasn't him!" The booming voice of the Thunderer was almost deafening, his gaze afire with defiance. But Odin was insistent, to say the least, his response equal in fierceness.  
"It has to be!" Both men paused a moment to draw their breath and internally douse their hot tempers, but to no avail in Thor's case. His father, however, managed to barely contain his anger, which was strangely mingled with a sense of exhaustion and anguish. "Don't you think I want to believe that he has changed? Don't you think I was overjoyed to have my prodigal son back?" The expression of Odin's face was now shadowed by grief, as if he slowly spoke out the painful truth for the first time in his life. "But he was always one quick to lie and deceive, and now he has deceived for the last time. This time he crossed the line, and for that, he shall be punished."

"He was at my side at the time of the theft. Something must blind us from the truth …" Thor's attempt to sway the Allfather was quickly silenced by a commanding gesture from the latter. He sat down on his throne like an old man weary of his life. He then looked his son straight in the eye, his voice steeped in sincerity.

"And who do you think it was?" He waited for a few seconds which seemed like eternity, but silence was the only answer.

"There is no one else in this realm who could have done it. You know this all too well." he said in a quiet voice, and he became even quieter. "And now the Gauntlet is lost to us. You know what I must do now. I cannot simply wipe his memory, for information within his mind might still prove critical." In his pondering, the Allfather seemed a little at a loss in regards of what to do. He even shrugged now while contemplating. "Why, it seems that no prison of physical nature is able to hold him. So tell me, Thor, what shall I do? I cannot let him go, or he will cause havoc. I cannot imprison him, for the prison that holds him has yet to be devised. I cannot put him under guard for all eternity, lest he grows even more bitter and resentful, which will only lead to another vengeful crusade of his.  
Tell me: What shall I do?"

Thor remained silent and defiant, his lips pressed together tightly. He gripped his Hammer even tighter until his knuckles were coloured white. Odin spoke again, even more grave and serious this time than I have ever seen him before.

"But I will not banish him, nor will I strip him of his powers. I don't intent to execute him either. I have other plans."

The more he spoke, the more my heart sank. It could be that he intended to execute Loki, a judgment that hasn't been passed on any Asgardian for thousands of years. If so, he would dishonor his own son and brand him and his family as traitor and enemy for all generations to come. It would not only stain Thor's reputation in all the realms, it would also cast a shadow on his future rule. Furthermore, Thor would be inconsolable; he had lost his brother once, could he bear losing him twice?

"The nature of punishment is threefold: First, the offender has the chance to repent, to regret and in doing so find his redemption. Second, punishment is meant to be vengeance for those the offender wronged. Third, imprisonment or execution is meant to shield society from the offender if need be.  
I do not see any indication that Loki has any intention to atone. He has had his chance and let it pass. Therefore, I will content myself with the protection of my people and retribution." The pointed remark was meant to chill to the bone. The Allfather seemed determined in what to do, even though Loki didn't know that judgment was passed on him this very moment. If I heard correctly, he was with Queen Frigga right now, but I didn't get to think about this much further. Thor, however, drew breath for a loud answer, but the King was quicker to speak.

"You, Thor, will stay here and aid the rebuilding process. Don't object, my will is final." I could hear Thor's teeth clench and saw how the muscles on his jaw tensed. He had no intention whatsoever to follow that command, that much was certain.

"Sif." Without a thought, I stepped forward to heed Odin's word. "Take your cadre and bring Loki to me. We will talk about a mission to retrieve the stolen relic afterwards. That would be all."

I simply nodded and turned around and glanced at Thor. His bright sea-blue eyes filled with determination pierced my heart and made my face glow with heat. In moments like these, even in greatest despair, he would overcome all odds and shine more brightly; of this I was certain. He had never needed Loki; it has always been his envious brother prancing in his shadow who just couldn't match any of the Thunderer's virtues. As soon as he abandoned that foolish notion of trying to "save" this murderer whom he still called brother, he would emerge stronger than before. I should know, because I always knew him best.

My teacher, my comrade in arms, my friend … I wish I could follow his unspoken wish now, but it wasn't possible. He wanted me to abandon my mission, wanted me to help his brother escape. But there were two things I would never allow: First, I will never see Thor dragged down and harmed in any way. Second: He will never see me sweat because of him. I turned on my heel and swiftly strode out of the hall while I heard the clinging of armour behind me – the Warrior's Three. It seemed like an unsaid agreement that they were my "cadre" now, the ones to accompany me in scouring the corridors.

"That ain't right." I abruptly paused and turned to Volstagg, more annoyed than concerned.

"What is it?" It was shameful how I treated an old friend like him, but time was of the essence and Volstagg looked at me with large puppy eyes and fumbled awkwardly with his hands and words. I think he was even stammering a bit. It seemed so strange that this massive man with his wild, flaming red beard would be so shy.

"That ain't right. That punishment … whatever it is ... I mean, look … how can invading someone's mind make a wrong right? He's considering it, isn't he?" What was that man talking about? But as I looked to the other two men for help, they stood silent. Hogun's face was a cold, unreadable mask, while Fandral tried very hard not to look at me directly. What could make stout Hogun and daring Fandral make so silent? It was Volstagg, however, who apparently had to muster his courage to speak. What was this nonsense? Had I become a monster of some sort that they were afraid to speak to me?

"Lady Sif, if you will be so kind, as in, if you will have the patience for my most h-humble request ... think for a moment." That last four words definitely had the weight of urgency on them. I sighed, still impatient, but gestured Volstagg to continue.

"Think. We know nothing about any … ah, events about the theft or about Thor or about his brother and I thought maybe, just maybe …" Before I could get impatient, Fandral finally chimed in and clapped Volstagg's back in a friendly manner.

"What our voracious friend here is trying to say: There is something we are completely missing here. We are quick to paint Loki a villain, but alas, there is little evidence other than …" He mimicked the grave voice of the Allfather, "Who else could it be?"

"He was always a friend to us until we decided to be his enemy." Volstagg's addendum was even more forgiving. Sure, they just might have had a point worth thinking about, but these men seemed to have forgotten Loki's deeds and, of course, the poor timing of their doubts.

"He tried to kill Odin, he tried to kill Thor, he tried to kill us, he tried to take over Midgard and he tried to destroy Jotunheim." A short reminder of this walking Insanity called Loki was enough to silence any more objections. Hogun obviously kept his own counsel on this, while Fandral simply shrugged, as if he hadn't been really concerned about this anyway. Volstagg however seemed a little hurt.

"Why are you so angry?"

Skuld's wrinkled ...! I wasn't angry, merely running out of time. I brushed his concerns aside. "We can sort this out later. For now, we have to find him, lest he flees from our grasp."

When we found the Queen just around the corner, she claimed with a gentle smile that her dearest son was already on his way to meet his father. Whether the lie was hers or his was not for me to know. It was unnecessary to say that we found no trace of Loki; he just vanished into thin air. As bitter as it sounds: We had often reaped the benefits of his little tricks in the past, no wonder he used them to evade us now.

I took his escape for what it was: a clear proof of his guilt. The more I think about it, the more I am certain that he manipulated a lot of people in a lot of incidents, and Thor ultimately was the victim. I wouldn't even be surprised if he engineered Thor's banishment. He had always been one to confuse with jealous lies, ruining lives and scarring souls. He did it even when he wasn't there.

I am Sif, Battlemaiden of Asgard, and by the blood that runs through my veins, I will hunt this bastard down.


	3. Tiles and Fallen Rooks

Sometimes, the only way to survive is to die.

From a certain perspective that sentence wasn't contradictory at all. There were moments in life, events that took place not necessarily on the outside but internally, a moment when everything was shattered to the core. It could be a moment of perfect bliss, but also a moment of complete misery. Whether it was a "negative" or "positive" emotion wasn't important, it was only important that it shook something up. It could be the grief over the death of a beloved person, a brush with death itself, the very first kiss with the person truly loved. Even the ecstasy of sex, if one foolishly overrated the act, had been known to conjure up the state where everything changed and nothing was like before.  
Oftentimes, these key moments in life were dictated by destiny. Wanda knew; what others called destiny was something she was rather intimate with - a force she could easily manipulate on a small scale.

She had only been in New Salem for a few months, and in all this time she had kept to herself. Agatha had tried to introduce her to the community and to show her the city with all its wonders and secrets. The hidden communities of sorcerers, warlocks and witches rarely numbered more than a hundred, which made it all the more important to form a bond with each other. There was this girl, the one with the strange horns … Gazelle? In retrospect, Wanda was sure that the girl had taken a shine on her. She could have acted on it and try to befriend that curious girl. Instead, she had spent her days in the seclusion of Agatha's estate, either learning from the books or moping about … well, about everything. Back then, all these thoughts had been so important, but they seemed trivial now. Now, she wasn't sure if either Gazelle or even Agatha were still alive, and she was explicitly forbidden to return until further notice.

She had known sorrow before; she had mourned her own actions, suffered with her patients and burned bridges with any and all of her surviving family. It seemed like an eternity ago that she had felt anything but sadness, and by the winds of destiny, she had cried a river or two. It was enough now.  
She had to be done with all that crying eventually. It might as well be now. No more crying.  
She had seen death and destruction, but lived to tell the tale, with a mission that sounded important on her shoulders. She had kept telling her patients to take dark times like these as an opportunity to change. It was high time she followed her own advice. It seemed sage enough.

Everything she knew was either gone or changed forever, so she had to change as well. Circumstances demanded it as well as her own well-being. Something must have died today, a little bit, a small death that she could take to rise, to arrange her stars anew. In fact, that was her only way of survival, emotional and otherwise.

Speaking of which, now that Wanda had determined that she would not curl into a ball and cry over the possible loss of the only person that had showed her kindness, she had to figure out how to escape her prison cell.  
Wanda had no recollection of how she had ended up here, but the sharp pain on her forehead and the hastily patched up scratch gave her the distinct idea that she might have been knocked out for a while. When she looked around, she also concluded that this was no ordinary prison cell. First and foremost, the distinct lack of feces and the like pointed to the fact that she hadn't been picked up by a normal police; the clean state of this room indicated a much more sophisticated organization. Lovely.  
Agatha had mentioned before that she wanted Wanda to get in touch with the response team that was involved in the Manhattan-Incident, so she was most likely still in the United States.  
If so, she should be worried. A complete white, tiled room with no window and nothing but a makeshift bed, a locked iron door, an obvious one-way-mirror and one wooden chair … if she didn't know better she would guess that she was about to be tortured.

Right, she didn't know better.

This wasn't even pessimism; the whole ambience was rather alarming. Back in her active days, she had the misfortune of being intimately aquainted with this kind of tiled room, even if physical torture hadn't been involved, thanks to Hawkeye. She had despised tiles ever since.

How had she even ended up here? In her current attire - as no witch worth her salt would wear trousers in New Salem - she looked old-fashioned, but ultimately normal. There was still the possibility that she had been identified as a mutant; if so, she was in trouble. This might be a rogue government facility which kept people like her as lab rats.

Where did she appear after she was sent away from New Salem? It must have been a rather crowded area; otherwise she wouldn't have found herself in this situation. She probably popped out of nowhere, someone called the police, the police called the government, but who did the government call? Someone with tiled rooms at their leisure, apparently.  
People were on edge, considering the events that had occurred in Manhattan. Extraterrestial attacks did their fair share in bringing out paranoia and even then, teleporting was something even more rarely seen around. It required a lot of time, energy, skill or the famed Bifröst and more often than not indicated visitors from very far away, like that Thor fellow. The Art of Teleport would certainly come in handy in her escape attempt, but she would have neither the time nor resources nor had she ever successfully attempted such a thing. Alas.

She had no desire to overstay her welcome. How long had she been here? An hour? Two? Was it night or day outside? It didn't matter, she had to get out of here as soon as possible and preferably before any unpleasantries could commence.  
But the very moment she rose from her pallet, the door opened and two men entered. She had watched enough TV to recognize at least one of them in an instant. Why, she had imagined Tony Stark a little taller, and the media evidently tended to gloss over the few lines on his face. He was aging well, but aging he was. She had thought him an a walking suit filled with an arrogant snob, but as of now, he looked relatively laid-back, a normal man in casual jeans and T-shirt who was just pulled out of his home. The man behind him however looked as if he was just tagging along. He appeared to be more clean-cut and proper, with fair hair, blue eyes and the face and body like a chiseled statue. His clothes were hopelessly out of fashion but underlined that first impression. A good head taller, he had to look down to address Stark. "You sure?".

Tony Stark rolled his eyes and turned to that blonde man, ignoring a perplexed Wanda. "You don't have to agree with it. I'll manage."

"I agree with your decision, but I don't agree with your reasons."

"C'mon, we all knew we'd come back here. It's just a little sooner than expected. My girl understands, my best buddy understands, my AI understands. Bottom line: You are just being an uptight prick ..."

"Excuse me?" The way Wanda interrupted felt a little bold and she was surprised her voice didn't falter, but it worked; both men turned their attention to her. It was pretty clear that this disagreement they were having was important in one way or the other, but … seriously, were they kidding? "I'm sorry. Tiled room. The girl is a little concerned here." She was almost sure these two men didn't mean to harm her; after all, Tony Stark was one of the people she had to get in touch with, but they just might leave her for another hour with a bag over her head unless she behaved. While the pretty statue boy looked at her with honest sympathy, Stark gestured her to wait.

"Right. Hold on a sec." He turned towards the other guy again. "Look, I know you are in full hero mode here. It'll all work out." He gave him a good-natured pat on the shoulder. "And now, go into the corner and look menacing, will ya? Averagely menacing should do." To her surprise, the blonde man complied without further ado, but he looked like he had a lot more to say. He didn't even try to look threatening. Stark however strode towards Wanda and extended his hand for greeting, an offer which Wanda only took warily.

"Hi, I'm Tony Stark, this ..." He nodded towards the man in the corner. "... is Captain Steve Rogers. Care to explain what you were doing in my foyer?"

"Your foyer?" Wanda had a little trouble following this guy. He thought and talked fast and obviously operated under the impression that she knew more than she did. "I don't understand. Where is "here"?"

Stark frowned in the light of her counter-question. "Okay. From the beginning then: You are in the Avengers HQ. Big Tower in New York. My work. It's not done yet. Security is tight, but you still managed to get through. Cameras show the strangest thing." He gestured. "Poof, there you were. Scared the shit out of Happy, by the way." Whoever Happy was. Perhaps his dog or something. But it made sense; Agatha would pinpoint a location where she could reach the response-team, so what better place than right at their doorstep? She hadn't been aware that they had a HQ, but on the other hand, something like this would've had to be built sooner or later after all that happened in this city.

If this was Avengers HQ, though, then Hawkeye might be here as well. It was at least worth a shot.

"May I speak to Agent Barton, please?"

Stark merely raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms before his chest. "We can talk about this after you've told me who you are and how you got past my security of which, frankly, I'm rather proud." There was no way around it, then.

"My apologies. My name is Wanda Maximoff and I was sent into your tower through a temporary portal. Your security had no chance to stop the process." She paused for a moment to assess the reactions of the two men in this room. While Captain Rogers, whose role in all this she had yet to determine, had raised both eyebrows as an expression of scepticism while leaned at the wall of his little corner and just listened. Stark on the other hand looked like he processed the information and decided to save his doubts for later.

"Okay. Teleport. I'll buy it for now. You were sent? By whom? How do you know Barton? Speak in full sentences, it'll be much easier than dragging it all out of you." He wasn't wrong on that account. She still had to get it all sorted out herself, so she took a deep breath. She noticed the open door, so her fight-or-flight-instinct was still intact, but she also realised on a rational level that everything was going as planned, somehow.

"Agatha Harkness sent me here ..."

"Rings a bell. Go on."

"Yes, she tried to contact you, but not to avail. She kept telling me that your encounter with the Chitauri had finally tipped the balance. I can't tell you much, as she kept me on a need-to-know-basis concerning the "bigger picture". I wasn't supposed to be involved at all, but something must have happened. That's not much to go on, I know ..."

"I'm still with you. Barton, how do you know him and who is Agatha Harkness other than a nice old lady who chewed my secretary's ear off?" She was a little taken aback by his assertiveness and compared to him, she probably sounded slow and deliberate. He was talking about twice as fast as her and as a non-native speaker, she had some trouble with his broad, three-times-chewed-over English.

"Clint Barton is an acquaintance of mine. We lost touch some time ago, which coincides with the Chitauri-attack. Agatha Harkness is a witch."

At first there was no reaction at all from Tony Stark. He promptly pulled out his cell phone without taking the gaze off her and made his call. He didn't even look at the display while he dialed. His countenance was betrayed by the barely noticeable twitching in the corner of his mouth. There was absolutely no doubt: He thought she was completely bonkers.

She couldn't exactly blame him, as sorcerers on Earth tended to keep an even lower profile than mutants. All this had to sound like fairy tales to him - it had to her when she first heard it. She glanced to the man who had been introduced as Captain Rogers, and to her surprise, he shrugged, but regarded her with a faint, compassionate smile. He looked as if he just bought her story and wasn't even overly surprised about it. She looked back at Tony Stark, who raised his index finger to gesture her to wait just a little while longer. He smiled too, but this smile was forced and looked more like wanted to stall her until the men with the straight-jackets arrived. Finally, the person he called answered the phone, which he talked to without abandoning his watch.

"Hi Clint. How is it goin'? … Yeah, about that: Know anything about a Wanda Maximoff? … Yes, stands right before me." She couldn't understand the chatter on the other end of the line, but one thing was certain: Tony Stark didn't like any of it. "… What do you mean "Finally"? She's talking about witches and stuff. You're sure … if you say so. What about Fury? … I won't tell him if you don't." Stark almost sounded a little defeated. "You're absolutely sure that …? Alright. Later." He hung up and took his sweet time to put away his cell phone, sparing Wanda only an aside glance.

"You have a very good friend, you know?" Feeling that his remark didn't need any comment on her part, she only nodded in agreement. Mr Stark evidently still needed time to wrap his head around the talk he just had. "Magic? Seriously?" He grimaced.

"Mr Stark, let me put it this way: There are mutants out there, yes? Some things they do look suspiciously like something some people would call magic. Would that be acceptable for you?"

"Much better. I can work with that." Tony Stark paused for a moment. "Okay, Harkness woman goes mutatis mutandis. Will talk about this later, too much work to do. Follow me." He was in a hurry all of sudden, simply nodding towards the door, then started walking. This was all so very much out of her own control to the point of being irritating.

"Yes. Sure. Everything that gets me out of this tiled room." Not that she wanted to complain, but everyone seemed to know more about the situation than herself, which Wanda found increasingly frustrating. It seemed that at least Captain Rogers was more agreeable than Stark, as felt the need to reassure her.  
"I wasn't a fan of the Tiled Room solution either." She spared him a thankful glance for his aside note before following Stark out of the room.

While the building itself seemed to be sturdy, the construction works were far from complete. There were risidual scorch marks of a large fire and a few holes in the walls as well; the complete lack of any wallpaper or carpet told her what she already knew: This building had been heavily damaged by the incident she heard so much about. While she was curious about these events, she had more pressing matters at hand.

"Mr Stark, may I ask what will transpire now?"

"No need to talk funny. Barton wants you to take a look at a severed head." What an odd request. Examination of corpse parts wasn't exactly her favourite way to pass time. From what she heard from the phone call, Clint was going to be here soon, so she only had to play along for now. She could put up resistance, but what good would that do? She was curious what was going on and she didn't have anything better to do anyway. Instead of twiddling her thumbs, she might as well do something useful. Stark was a friend of Clint after all, so it seemed all right for the moment. That didn't diminish the fact that conversing with him was rather straining, which might have been the reason why she snapped at him just so see if she could get away with it.

"Don't you have your own coroners? Why are you in the possession of a severed head?" Stupid question, he just might have bought it. Or bought the Autopsy Bay. She didn't think this through, as it occurred to her that Barton wouldn't suggest she looked at corpse parts if he wanted a medical opinion. He wanted a magical opinion, but she wasn't about to mention this now. They arrived at an elevator, which opened promptly. When Stark stepped in and turned around, she could see the incredulous look on his face.

"You a coroner?"

"I'm no stranger to this, but I'm no doctor either. Nevertheless, I might see something others have missed. Why is this particular head so important?"

"It's the head of the Hulk." One flat answer from an expressionless Tony Stark chilled to the bone. She had heard of the Hulk – that green indestructible colossus? She had thought that thing unkillable. The thought alone that someone or something could even harm the Hulk was rather frightening. So that creature wasn't invincible after all. She was also told that the green monster pulled himself together and fought the Chitauri with that response team Stark belonged to. If so, he and the man behind the Hulk were at least comrades-in-arms. No small wonder Stark was on edge; he had just lost a friend and was storing his head inside his home. She ought to be ashamed that she had inwardly dismissed his attitude as simple impatience, not the grief it really was. Now that she looked at it this way, she could see that she had been talking with a stressed man who wanted to act, but had no real opportunity to do so. The discussion he had with Captain Rogers might have been an inclination to that. Who was that Rogers-guy anyway? She would have to ask later.

"My condolences." Wanda said after a pause, with genuine sympathy in her voice. Stark however was determinedly indifferent.

"I don't need your condolences, I need answers. Perhaps I even need your expertise. Remains to be seen." As if on cue, the elevator door opened, revealing not only an entrance area, but also several rooms behind it. Bright and a little chilly, it looked more like a very modern and well equipped hospital wing. She could see white curtains and a few tables and chairs that looked more like they were there to make the vast room look less empty. All seemed very efficient and sensible in construction and order, if clinical. She could even smell the faint and all too familiar scent of disinfectant in the air.

"Morgue and medical laboratory are in the western wing of this floor. Do your thing, I don't wanna see this. If you have questions, consult the A.I. or Cap. Ah, and it was hard enough to get him out of S.H.I.E.L.D.s claws, so be gentle, will you?"

He was completely down to business now and she knew the biggest favour she could do him at this moment was to match that attitude. "I need access to the subject's data. Autopsy and toxicology reports, any scans or tests done when the subject was still alive, anything you can provide."

"Done. Cap will supervise you. I'll be in my workshop. See you in a few hours." With these words, he went into the elevator again, leaving them both behind.


	4. Sorcerer's Tools

Either this mirror was somehow less flattering than a mirror should be, or she really didn't look so good. The dark circles under her eyes were only highlighted through her ghastly pale complexion. Her hair wasn't in the mood to fall into place either and the scratched eyebrow wasn't helping the first impression. She looked into that mirror and saw an exhausted, gaunt woman with disheveled black hair. To add insult to injury, her roots were showing.

Well, there was nothing that could be done about it now. With a resigned sigh, Wanda tied her hair back and started to treat her tiny injury.

Through the mirror she could see Captain Rogers standing in the back of the room, his arms crossed before his chest and staring into space. But against all appearances of boredom, she detected a hint of tension. Impatience perhaps?  
"It would be irresponsible to examine the subject with an open wound, even if it is merely a scratch. I have to patch it up properly first." She explained apologetically into the mirror. He turned his head towards her, but his expression was serious mingled with a touch of sadness.

"You do what you have to do." At least this military guy wasn't as nasty as Tony Stark in these circumstances. It was high time that she learned more about him, now that he was stuck with her anyway.

"Mr Stark is quite the character, no? May I ask how you two know each other?"

"We're teammates." Now he looked a little embarrassed, as he rubbed his neck in a helpless gesture. "I'm … uh, Captain America." He looked like he was aware there was no chance whatsoever not to make that line sound corny. Wanda froze immediately, though. That fellow there was the famous hero of WWII? He made quite the commotion in the news and in the world of medical science when he was finally sawed out of that glacier. She didn't believe even half the myths surrounding him, but somehow, she still found herself stiffening and hoping that she didn't make a fool out of herself. She had heard however of the ideal he represented, but seriously doubted that anyone could live up to that. On another note, it meant that he, too, had lost a team member.

"I'm sorry." She stated, still addressing him through the mirror, but he quickly dismissed it.

"No need to be sorry. You didn't kill him. Can you tell me who did?"

"We shall see." She checked the band-aid one last time, then put on surgical gloves. She had already donned a lab coat, so there was no excuse to delay any longer. The irony; She hated nothing more than autopsies and there she was. There wasn't even a corpse in sight and she already felt a little nauseous, how embarrassing. Not wanting to show any more of her discomfort, she squared her shoulders and walked straight into the room which contained the refrigerator unit with said body inside. She could hear the footsteps of Captain Rogers behind her, which wasn't surprising. He was told to supervise her after all.

"Don't you need any surgical instruments?" He asked warily. Wanda had to restrain herself not to bitterly smile at his question.

"I'm not here to open him up again. Your coroners, as far as I can tell, have worked themselves out on this one rather thoroughly. I am here to answer questions like "Why isn't he radiating Gamma emissions?". Considering his predicament, he should radiate a lot of it." Without further ado, she flung the unit open and pulled out the drawer.

The subject was, indeed, just a head. But what a monstrous head, inhumanly large and discoloured. She had seen the pictures in the record beforehand, but that was then. Now, it seemed much more real, and much more strange at the same time. But more than the head before her, she noticed the subtle signs that she had to look out for. It wasn't really visible, but she was positive that this head was practically oozing with magic, magic that made her really uncomfortable and increased the sickening feeling of nausea. Before she knew it, she had slammed the unit tightly shut again and pressed her back against the hold, as if she was afraid it would swing open. After three deep breaths, she finally managed to comment on that.

"Winds of Destiny! Did you see that? Never mind, you didn't. But did you smell that?" But the Captain just looked at her quizzically.

"Smelled what?"

"Cinnamon." She exclaimed with a little more enthusiasm than she had originally intended. All in all, she had thought herself to be shaken by this spectacular display of magic by one head alone, but she felt more flustered. She would contemplate about the oddity of this another time. For now, she rushed to console, searching through the files. Rogers let out a small, nervous laugh.

"Hold on, I don't follow. What are you searching for and what's with the cinnamon?" Wanda stopped in her work and looked at him apologetically.

"I'm sorry, it's hard to explain."

"Try me. I might surprise you."

She took a moment to collect herself. "Someone has pumped a large amount of magic in this head with brute force. This causes slight side-effects that are perceivable, but highly individualistic and therefore barely explainable. For me, it's linked to a memory I connect with cinnamon, therefore it smells like cinnamon for me. Whoever did this wasn't really subtle, otherwise it wouldn't have been so obvious to me. Anyway, the real question is: Was your friend killed with magic or is that head just a magic construct? I can discern this, as such a thing would lead to certain chemicals or bioeletrical impulses being created." She turned the display to Captain Rogers, who was looking intently, but most likely couldn't do much with the information in the toxicological report, while Wanda continued to explain. "I don't know exactly what I'm searching for, I only know that I will know it when I see it. It would have been something that your coroner must have found slightly off, but not that strange given the circumstances."

Captain Rogers was obviously letting all she said sink in. "Let me see if I get this straight: Someone has either killed Banner with magic or made a copy of his head and delivered it to us? Why?"

"I'd like to hear your theory on this."

Rogers responded with a small smile, while she continued searching through the records. "If I was a mage with the power to kill the Hulk at my fingertips ..." He mused. "Why kill the Hulk? He's tough and dangerous, but killing him would demoralize the enemy. I deliver his head to them and watch them panic because I just told them "Hey, I can kill the strongest of you". Sound strategy, but why don't I kill the rest of them? Perhaps the Hulk was something special and my magic could hit only him and no one else."

"Oh, I hadn't considered that. There, you did surprise me."

"Next scenario: I let my enemy know that I've killed the Hulk but in reality I haven't. That would make much more sense. Perhaps Banner was sedated. I bet the Hulk is much easier to sedate than kill."

"I wouldn't get my hopes too high concerning Dr Banner, but as for the head being a fake: That's exactly what I thought. " Wanda didn't take her gaze off the screen. She just hoped that he didn't expect too much or let his wish for Dr Banner being alive become an expectation. Rogers continued in a tone that suggested professional expertise.

"Here's the thing with demoralization: you only do it to people to let them make mistakes 'cause you need their mistakes. It seems like we're dangerous to whoever that guy in the shadows is." She had finished the report anyway and his thesis piqued her interest. He seemed in a brighter mood now.

"So … that makes you feel better?" She asked.

"That means that the other guy fears us. That also means that we have a chance to win this in the end. That's more than I had a minute ago." He smiled benignly. "Unless that guy's just completely batshit and messing with our heads. Then we're screwed."

"I hadn't considered the tactics of it. I just saw a heinous act." Wanda contemplated, sparing a small smile to his theory about the madness of the potential enemy. Even after all what happened today, he made a fair point. There was still hope as long as there was room to maneuver, as it proved that simple invasion wouldn't do it. Perhaps that's what Agatha thought as well and perhaps she was doing just that: maneuvering. As long as there was the need from either side to maneuver, nothing was lost. "I hadn't thought about it that way." She murmured more to herself than to him.

"Magic's nothing you can explain, right? Then you of all people should know that there's more to the world than just crisis and catastrophe. Once in a while, there's a miracle as well."

"I imagine." Wanda chuckled. "I mean, look at you."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Although your medical files are locked up tight, there are a few facts about you. You were injected with a serum that amplified your physical characteristics, made you athletic and more durable. That would only be accomplished by hyperstimulating the metabolism, which should be a large strain on the body. Also, going on these extreme levels of physical extortion means that your muscles …" She patted his forearm playfully with the back of her hand. " … should have been liquified. I have theorized this in my Bachelor Thesis: Your body should have been burned out a long time ago, and yet here you are. And I'm not even talking about your stay in the ice ..."

"Wait a sec." Rogers interrupted with a disbelieving look on his face. "You wrote your Bachelor Thesis about me?" Oh dear. That was embarrassing. Very embarrassing, she could feel herself blushing like a maiden. This was all not made better by the fact that she had never finished this particular Bachelor Thesis. She needed to talk her way out of this, fast.

"No! Not really, no. Not … precisely. It was about, ahm … you know, physical extortion of athletics. You were an example, of sorts." She stuttered, making only a bigger fool out of herself. That conversation had just changed from insightful and even pleasant to the point where she could feel her cheeks burn, something that hadn't happend for a very long time. Would telling him that she wasn't a mad scientist, stalker, fan or whatever (Honestly. Scout's honour!) really cut it? Doubtful. There was only one way to get out of this: change of topic, now!

"Say, do you play chess? You must be good at it." She asked him abruptly, following an the next best impulse she could muster. There was an uncomfortable pause after her sudden question, but thankfully, Rogers' seemed more amused than creeped out and generously let her drop the subject.

"Not really, no. Should I?"

"Definitely. You have a tactical mind, no? That's a very good start." She still felt a little flustered. Also, this was as good an opportunity as any to get on with her assignment. "I, uh, didn't find anything. I'm afraid I have to take a sample of the cerebral matter." She ran her hand nervously through her hair, still not having regained her composure completely. "Yuck. I could really do without that."

"Is there a problem?" His genuine concern and consideration of her erratic behaviour at the moment was more appreciated than he would know. Indeed, it felt like support and helped her focus on the subject.

"Yes … no … yes and no." Beating around the bush wasn't going to explain this, but the good Captain waited patiently. "Medical Science wasn't really my primary field. I had to assist with two autopsies during study, and I finished them both minus my stomach contents." She wrinkled her nose as she recalled both incidents, while her stomach started to feel very tender again.

"What was he like?" But now she allowed herself not only emotion, she allowed it to spread outward – the feeling being compassion, which she now felt like a sting of pain in her heart, even if it wasn't her pain. Steve winced as he searched for words, not to avail.

"He … was a good man."

"Many are."

At this point, he even grimaced, but he couldn't bring himself to take this conversation on a lighter note. It wasn't hard to tell; he made the impression of carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders, as if he was dragged down by this invisible burden. He still carefully avoided eye contact as he began to tentatively describe his dead companion.

"He was a little odd, I guess. Smart, but a bit weird. Patient. He once said he was angry all the time, but kept calm somehow. Funny too. They all forget that he was really funny when he wasn't … well ..."

"I understand that this is hard for you, so you don't need to stay …" Wanda pointed at the refrigerator unit, but was cut off by Steve in an instant with a reassuring gesture.

"No, it's alright. I stay."

Wanda couldn't help but to smile a little in relief. It would be good to at least have company during the examination. There was little doubt that the coroner before her left a mess. Normally, a coroner would remove the cerebral matter during autopsy and simply put it to the other organs in the abdomen afterwards, so the abdominal wall wouldn't sink in. The head was then usually padded with wood wool and given to any funeral parlour hired for the job. In this case, however, the brain mass had been put back into the head and therefore in utter chaos. Well, at least she hadn't to endure this alone, even if Rogers now shook his head, a forced smile on his face.

"Tony wants me to keep an eye on you after all. He's worried that you may blow up the morgue or take over the world or something."

"Awww. Great. And there I thought you just enjoyed my company." It was a weak attempt of a joke on Wanda's part, but it certainly lightened the mood enough for Steve to play along. So he shrugged, his expression apologetic.

"Look at the bright side: I can fetch you a bucket."

"It is too bad that I didn't have any breakfast." She wanted to add something, but was cut off sharp by the slightly alarmed voice of Tony Stark through the speaker.

"Uh, guys? You alright? Dr. Ross just gave me a call, said that the cells in her skin sample started to divide and …" He was interrupted by a sudden thunderous banging noise coming from the refrigerator unit. The metallic door even showed a massive bulge – wasn't there only to be a head inside? It seemed more like something was trying to get out.

"We noticed!" Steve Rogers was obviously horrified, but he reacted nevertheless in an instant, swiftly grabbed Wanda and dragged her out of the room before she could regain her composure. Even if it was a feeble attempt, he slammed the heavy door behind him and continued to rush forward.

"Stark, our head just woke up. Lock this place down."

"Can do, but ...what?!"

"It's not Banner. It's … " He stopped, turned swiftly to Wanda without stopping to drag her through the corridors. "Is it him?" She only shook her head rigorously – whatever that thing was, it wasn't alive, of that she was at least certain. Although alarmed, Rogers acted with more confidence than in their conversation before.

"Stark, it's not Banner. It's some … monster … thing … I'll explain later."

"Ok, I got your back. Get out of there, I'll shut that floor down."

"So that he breaks through the ceiling? No, complete lockdown, now!" After Captain Rogers' command, Wanda saw how shutters at a lot of doorways and all windows rolled down. Even the light was dimmed and … was there even a red hue in the lighting? This was serious trouble, but oddly enough she couldn't help but notice Stark's fondness of the dramatic.

"Done. I'll vent the morgue with sedatives. Get to the entrance." As if there was any need to be urged forward, there was a terrifying, animalistic roaring heard from the morgue, as well as loud banging against the shutter. Now even the professional-looking soldier was visibly shaken.

"It's not working."

"Sedatives won't work on this one. Not that they work that fast ..." Wanda mumbled while she hurried through the corridors back to the entrance, Rogers close behind her. "Sorry that I can't give you an assessment. I have no idea what just happened."

"Stark? Suit up."

"Still powering. It's a prototype and it's not even finished. Hang in there."

Rogers muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse, then looked around, as if searching something. He then reached for Wanda's arm to guide her towards the only furniture in this vast room, which happened to be a couch. She was pulled into a crouching stance while he spoke to her only in a hushed voice.

"Stay in cover and don't make a sound. Run away as fast as you can when Stark opens the shutter. I'll …" He wanted to say more, but Wanda interrupted him most unceremoniously.

"I know you mean well. My sincerest apologies, but …" She rose to full height. "I need to see this." Steve abruptly turned his head when yonder in the morgue the massive door was thrown out of its hinges with a loud crash. Both of them froze immediately as they heard slow and heavy stomps, every single one accompanied by a distinct thud. Otherwise, there was only silence, hanging heavy in the air. Even as Captain Rogers sneaked soft-footed across the room to press himself against the wall, shadowed

in the dimmed light, there was nothing but these heavy steps. Wanda could feel her own heart beating madly against her chest, while the sound of dripping fluid became more and more audible as the creature approached. Good grief, what was that stench?  
She watched in horror as the shape of this monster appeared in the broad doorway. It towered at least twice as large and many more times as massive as any human, a mountain of muscles. Aside from the head, there was no skin anywhere, so that muscles and sinews were clearly visible. Parts of his abdomen, his feet and his left arm were still ragged, if not outright missing, while blood, so much more blood than was possible dripped from the creature's body. His eyes showed a strange glow, one that Wanda recognized at once. It jerked its head, apparently noticing either her or Rogers, but the latter wasn't going to let it have the initiative. In a display of valor and foolish despair, he threw himself like a berserk against that nightmarish monster, no matter how much blood was splattering around.

The creature roared in rage, but its movements were uncoordinated and clumsy, so it tried to grab the wrestling Captain with its only hand. It failed the first, but not the second time, seizing him by the shoulder.  
The soldier however was not deterred. He struggled himself free, kept moving around the creature, as if he wanted to taunt it.

"I need access to its spine!" Wanda called out, but even as she asked for it, she still couldn't believe what Captain Rogers did after that – he tackled it. What was even more surprising: He was successful, as he dragged that thing down and tried to pin it down on the floor. While he and the creature struggled, Wanda hurried to them both to join the fray. But she couldn't do her work, that monster kept rearing and roaring.

She was surprised when she saw two metal hands assisting to pin the monster down, hands that belonged to no other than the walking suit she heard and saw so much about. Thankfully, Tony Stark saved any comment and just kept pushing.

"There." Wanda pointed at the point of the massive monster's neck that she felt was crucial. "Can you open that?" It was so odd to see an expressionless helmet turning towards her, and still she could practically feel the doubtful look and raised eyebrow on Stark's face. It was Captain Rogers, however, who was close to yelling at the him.

"Just do it!" It took him the duration of two heartbeats before he thankfully complied, cutting flesh and bone with a … was that a laser? Why did this man have a freaking laser in his suit? Madness! But she had no time to dwell on it, waited two seconds in which the hulking creature continued to struggle savagely. Then she reached into the melted flesh, only to burn her fingers nonetheless. It didn't matter; between sharp bones, she felt a familiar resonating and a splinter, which she pulled out that instant.  
The creatures limps jerked, but then all movement, all struggle died and it sunk down lifelessly. Even as she heard Rogers and herself catch their breaths, it remained motionless.

"JARVIS, end the lockdown." Only now that the normal lighting returned, the whole magnitude of this mess became apparent. All of them were soaked in dark blood, lots of it was splattered around all over the place. Wanda also felt the questioning looks of both men. Yes, she had a lot of explaining to do, and she would do so when the adrenalin rush in her veins had ended. Strange, she felt more excited than horrified, despite the scenery that could easily qualify for a splatter movie.

"Well,I've got news. This …" she pointed at the gory mess that wore the Hulk's shape. "… is not your friend. It isn't even his corpse, to be technical." Her tongue felt leaden now. Tiredness after adrenalin rush, obviously. How odd. She even had to blink to keep her eyes open. If it weren't so disgusting, she would lie down here and now. With aching fingers but triumphantly she held up the salvaged splinter.

"Congratulations. It seems that you have attracted the ire of a mage."


	5. Enter the White Rook

At times, even a moderately sized cup seemed far too small. But there was nothing to be done about it right now, was there? Even so, the coffee within was steaming hot, blacker than ink and packed with enough sugar to cause diabetes just by looking at it. Given her current state, it was the most perfect cup of coffee in existence. Even though Wanda heard someone coming in, she was settled to enjoy her cup of coffee just one moment longer, just long enough to add to the perfection by throwing in an Aspirin, which disappeared into the black liquid with a fizzing sound. She didn't like the experiment, but she had to somehow stop the pounding in her head after a healthy dose of zombie-action and stray sedatives in the air.

"You don't look so hot. Here, have a cookie." Clint Barton sat down at the empty conference table, making sure that he sat vis-á-vis to Wanda while he offered her said palm-sized candy with a smirk, which she accepted thankfully.

"Hmmm, half-baked. These wonderful things you Americans do … you have truly perfected the art of making sweet things even sweeter. Nice to see you, cookie. Nice to see you too, Clint." She ignored the comment about her current appearance, which couldn't be that good after she had to shower off lots of blood and gore – her hair was still wet and she had been provided a clean but oversized shirt which hung on her like a peg. He, however, looked just like when she met him the last time two years ago, same clothes, same composure, same lines on his face, same twinkle in his eye. Somehow he must have learned how to halt his ageing process, or enjoyed his work so much that it kept him young – which would be somewhat unsettling.

"I heard there were some complications."

"Do you think so? The way you described it, dead men walking are usual business." She explained cheerfully while breaking her cookie down into little bits, but when she looked up, she saw the doubtful look on Barton's face. She had known him long enough not to fool around when he called for serious business. So she cleared her throat and tried again, this time in earnest.

"That was most definitely magic. I think this head was a trap – imagine what it could have done in a regular morgue. It would only have stopped moving when utterly destroyed. I assume that creature might have even given pause to that secret organization of yours if it had been complete."

"I know. But how have you been? What happened?" Barton was genuinely concerned, which she noticed gratefully, but it also meant that he required a full explanation now. In fact, she could not blame him. Before she stopped reporting in, he had only heard from her hospitalization, but had been kind enough not to ask too many questions. It was high time that she explained the whole situation. If she couldn't confide in him, who else?

"You remember that I was aspiring to earn my medical degree while working in a psychiatric clinic, no? Apparently, I couldn't handle it. It turned out that I'm not cut out for my work and had to drop out. I was told that I would end up developing too much empathy for my patients and that it's unprofessional to feel too much compassion and be too naïve. I think that's rubbish. Overly compassionate. Me, of all people! Anyway, that's how I went from therapist to mental patient."

"Sounds like you had a rough time. How did you end up here, then?" It was almost unsettling how calm and composed he was.

"Well … a really bizarre chain of events, I suppose. You remember Agatha Harkness? She sent me here, but I don't really know for what. She told me bits and pieces about some serious threat, but she kept it all deliberately vague. That's how she was."

"Was?"

"I think she is dead by now." Strange. To say it out loud as if it was a matter of fact didn't upset her as much as she thought. After everything she had seen in New Salem, it was safe to say that all the evidence pointed to the old witch's untimely demise, so it was only rational to assume it. And yet, deep down, Wanda didn't really believe it. Clint looked pensive after this reveal and she had considered telling him about New Salem, but what was there to tell? Strictly speaking, she had only seen a dark sky as a herald of foul weather. But there was so much more to it and she didn't know how to put that horrible feeling of dread she had in words. Whatever it was, it had felt lethal on a large scale, but also strangely intangible. Everything she could accomplish in telling him was giving away the location of the wizard community – which was expressly forbidden – or being coddled and pitied. She wouldn't have it. If there was any way that ordinary people could've helped in this matter, Agatha would have exploited that beforehand, as she evidently had seen this attack coming. All she had to do was trust in her mentor, trust that this strong, capable and wise woman would make the right decision for all of them. She had to take a deep breath and shake off dark thoughts before continuing.

"Agatha couldn't stop talking about your Manhattan-Incident and how it had changed the rules, the players and the general order of things. A few days ago she got suddenly more agitated than I've ever seen her, saying that she had to find a way to contact the group of specialists that unwittingly called themselves the "Avengers", that they had made themselves a target and would soon be in the heart of everything. She failed, by the way. So I got sent here, was dumped into a tiled room, suffered Tony Stark and … you know the rest." Wanda leaned forward with a barely visible amused smile.

"A. Tiled. Room." Barton couldn't help but grin and play along.

"Well, excuse me, princess. There's still this tiny little terrorist thing way back that has never been formally resolved."

" Details.", she huffed.

"Just sayin'." The smile faded from his face when he leaned back and crossed his arms before his chest. "Hell of a day, huh?"

"You can say that again. It's strange, though. I feel fine. Walking corpses, tiles, sedatives and that chatterbox of a Stark aside, I'm well. In fact, I haven't felt that good in a long time. Most peculiar."

"It's not." Clint stated as a matter-of-fact. "'You should have worked out there, where you could change something, where it really mattered. People like us can't be stuffed in some nuthouse and try to cure the incurable."

"People like us?" Now Wanda was a little offended. People? What was that supposed to mean? Professional assassins like him or freaks like her? His words about the mental hospital however stung, even if she wouldn't admit it. "I really like you, Clint, but you are sadly mistaken if you think that we are anything alike." She sounded more dismissive than she had originally intended, yet Barton wasn't deterred. He even seemed to have an air of sternness around him that she hadn't noticed before.

"Listen closely, kid: it doesn't matter what a person pretends to be, it only matters what a person does when under pressure. It is not the normal life that brings out the best or worst in us, it's the extreme. You and I live for it, _and you know it_. You said so yourself, remember?" His words were harsh, but the sound of his voice wasn't unkind or overly strict. He could revel in his life of risks all he wanted, but he didn't drag her out here. After all what happened today, she couldn't turn her back on it, and in that he was right. He must have sensed that she had originally considered to bail out as soon as possible. Now, the thought alone made her cheeks glow in embarrassment while she involuntary cast her eyes down. Like him, she had once actively sought out adventure, even danger. It was the right thing for all the wrong reasons back then. Now, everything that remained was a credo.

"Memento mori, hm?"

"I prefer Memento vitae."

"You shame me."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to." Barton sounded much more placative now as he went on. "Look, this whole mess hit us all very sudden. Before Thor and Loki, we dismissed the mere existence of magic as myth or some fancy mutant power. It's not, it's real. We know nothing about it."

"We?" Wanda asked, her confidence slowly returning.

"My friends who kinda protect this world. And my boss as well." He paused a moment as if weighing his words, which was unusual for him. "S.H.I.E.L.D. intends to hire you as a consultant. We need information on a staff, on the procedure done to "Banner's" remains, about mind control. If you can't do that, point us to someone who knows." She was to be hired now? Now that was odd; didn't his organisation list her as a terrorist?

"Your influence, I assume?" She took his cocky smile as a "yes" and his proposition into careful consideration. She trusted Barton implicitly, so a scheme or exploitation was out of the question. Furthermore, what he was asking for made sense and agreed with Agatha's task, even if she had formulated it in a vague and mysterious fashion. She was unsure if she possessed the required expertise. Also, it shook her principle not to get involved and remain neutral to the core.

"You know that I didn't want to be associated with your organisation, ever?"

"Things have changed." At this point, Barton wasn't above a taunting smile. "_He_ isn't quite the thread he used to be. It seems _he_ has finally settled down a bit. Will you really not help us out because you don't want to piss off your Old Man? I don't think so. I think you're better than that." Her father wasn't supposed to be a danger because of an acute case of calm? She seriously doubted it, which mirrored in her facial expression, but kept any vocal concerns to herself.

"I can't point you to another sorcerer. First, I'm just an apprentice and as such, relatively new to these communities. Also … " She paused to carefully choose her words and not to reveal too much." … there have been … complications. Standard procedure in this case dictates that the other enclaves seal themselves off to make sure that as few as possible are affected. I can't tell you where they are or how many are in existence. I would have a hard time to find the commune I have visited multiple times and stayed there for the past year, even if I wanted to."

"Pity, but we can't change that now. Seems like we have to work with what we've got." It seemed more and more as if she didn't have much of a choice in this matter.

"How does this work?"

"Spill your guts, that's how it works. Also, the staff in question will be sent here. Take a look, write everything you know down."

"Seems easy enough. How long is this going to take?"

"As long as this crisis lasts."

"Crisis …" Wanda scoffed half-heartedly, feeling that she had to complain about something if she was about to be pressed into some adventure she didn't asked for and service in a matter she didn't consider herself a specialist in. "There is always crisis. If you find out what happened to your friend, there is still the question of the mage who performed this ritual. One investigation will quickly lead to another. It's a never-ending story of causality."

"Precisely." Clint looked almost happy about it. She apparently really had no choice in this matter. She would have liked to remain neutral, but it wasn't possible. Something had attacked her home, and she couldn't shake the feeling that the cause for this was somehow connected to this group under S.H.I.E.L.D.'s wing. Agatha indicated it on several occasions while she had a feeling that the ritual performed on Bruce Banner was alike to the portents she saw in New Salem. Her gaze drifted off from Clint to the windows. Even here, black clouds darkened the dusky sky, indicating heavy rain. What a dismal sight.

"If it is not too much to ask, I would like some privacy when I'm not needed. Not here. This is … Stark's Tower, Avenger's Home, HQ … I really don't belong here." She looked directly at Clint, but couldn't really say what he was thinking. "Just something small and modest … I'm just so sick of being under constant surveillance. After I was released from hospital, Agatha took me in, so I lived under her watchful eye, so to speak. I didn't mind then, but I need to be on my own once in a while. I know what you are going to say."She imitated his voice. "The rules of security!" Barton's face was an unreadable mask right now. She could only say that he was listening very carefully. "I know that sounds strange, but I would rather trade security for a little freedom, if you please. As you well know, I am able to take care of myself should the need arise. I would prefer not to, but … now I'm rambling …"

She was finally interrupted by a calm statement from Barton, accompanied by a reassuring gesture. "It can be arranged." Four small words, and she breathed easier now. Where she got the sudden desire for solitude she didn't know. It just occurred to her, it seemed.

"I had some books with me when I was sent here. I need them as well."

"They never left the building."

"Good … good."

"It would all be so much easier if you would just talk to the director …"

"Oh no no no no no. I'm not talking to Director Fury. He will shoot laser beams out of his eyes if I ever step into his range again." This was only half a joke, since she was indeed a little afraid of the director. Not terrified, just a little well-placed and well-earned distrust, really, although his wrath was a terrible sight to behold.

"Flying winged bears with frickin' lasers coming out of their eyes!" Tony Stark just commented without knowing what was going on while he walked into the room, followed by Captain Rogers. Did these two go everywhere together? At least Rogers was apparently allowed to shower alone, as he clearly had had as little time as she to get his hair dry. Mr Stark however looked no different; he just seemed a more restless than before, more irritated. While Rogers took his time to sit down, Stark remained standing, just putting his hands on the back of his chair.

"We'll need those soon, don't you think? You." He pointed at Wanda. "Talk. What's going on? No more mystery-babble, just get straight to the point." Well, apparently, he was still freaked out about the incident – she couldn't blame him. If she understood right, he was the only civilian member of this group, with soldiers, government agents, Asgardians and a Hulk all around him. He was entitled a little temper in this matter, as she was entitled to take a deep breath before her explanation.

"You are targeted by a sorcerer; it's as simple as that. He goes to great lengths in using a form of rare and really complex magic just to make your life miserable. Judging from what I've seen it might be a personal vendetta." She took a sip of her coffee, only to almost choke on it. Mental note: Never combine coffee with Aspirin. It tasted like it was heaped with loads of artificial sweetener, minus the sweet and seasoned with a shot of dish soap.

"Yeah, I need more than that. That wasn't Banner. Good. What was it and how did you know?" Stark asked impatiently. For a moment, Wanda was a little confounded, since her analysis seemed self-explanatory to her; but had forgotten that sorcery wasn't something that had been acknowledged until very recently. Compared to Tony Stark, however, she was calm and collected.

"I'll start at the beginning, then. There are various forms of magic; basically, it can be broken down into order and chaos. Order represents preservation, healing, compliance, but also stagnation. Chaos represents destruction, manipulation, but also change and progress. It all boils down to that. But there are some rules even a practitioner of chaos wouldn't cross, because it's incredibly difficult, requires ridiculous amounts of time to perform or crosses the powers that are. Mind you …" She raised her index-finger and took great care to emphasise this aspect. "I'm not talking about God. Concerning this question, I'm just as clueless as anybody and unwilling to discuss the fine points of faith. I'm talking about forces of nature, like Time or Death in this case. Take this rule for example: Don't mess with Death. You don't take what is rightfully his, you don't cross the border of Life and Death as you please and you don't try to kill Death. I hear that particular entity is known to really hold a grudge against people who try. Everything dies eventually, and there is no telling what Death can do to someone who doesn't adhere to these simple rules. That's why necromancy is such a difficult matter; most sorcerers try to practice it to bring back deceased loved ones. Stories like this never end well, as Death himself tends to object. Also, it makes necromancy, as in true resurrection of the Dead, exceedingly scarce. That's one of the reasons why I'm certain that this wasn't your friend." It became more and more apparent that the subject had gotten under Stark's skin. which made Wanda suspect traumatic experience or close relationship to the victim. His jaw was clenched and his features had hardened during her speech. Barton tried his best to look focused, calm and professional, but he carefully avoided eye contact, as if hiding something.

"So … in theory, magic could bring back dead people?" Steve Rogers seemed more pensive, even a little hopeful.

"In theory, but good luck getting a mage to resurrect somebody for you. As I said, Death would make anyone involved suffer for eternity. It is a fool notion to even attempt such a thing …" She turned to Steve with a gentle tone in her voice, having the urge to comfort him, as he was obviously imagining bringing back someone he lost. "I'm sorry Captain, but death is final. It is painful, but it is how it has to be. If Death were to be cheated so easily, we would lose our value for life, no?" She said the words, she tried to reassure a soldier out of his time, but in secret she wondered what she would do if given the choice – something like resurrection was way beyond her abilities. Perhaps it was for the best not to be tempted like this.

"That being said, all magic can be undone. Let's look at the ritual done to your friend for now. As a matter of fact, necromancy is bad. Yet someone captured your friend, made him hulk out and took samples from his tissue. Imagine it like an advanced cloning process. I don't know why, but dead matter can be animated, but not brought to life. As a result, a construct, a … a golem was created – growing flesh, animated matter, but no higher brain functions available."

"In short: Zombie-Hulk." She got to hand it to him, but Stark had the most peculiar gift to bring the whole subject straight to the point.

"Exactly. But for a golem like this, the original is needed alive. This is not like the Golem of Prague which was shaped with stone and clay. It's an exact copy of the original Hulk, and that is not just the animation of a construct. That is necromancy in its most reviled form. And pretty disgusting." The last sentence was only muttered under her breath before she continued. "It wasn't finished growing, so you two …" She addressed the two gentlemen who had been so kind as to restrain the creature before. "… had a comparatively easy time putting it down. Next time, it might be a full-fledged copy of the original without intelligence, comprehension, conscience, remorse or pity. You'll do your friend a favour in destroying it." Tony Stark was still tense, still on edge, but the prospect of his friend being alive seemed to have calmed him a bit.

"Banner's alive, Big Bad clones zombies out of him. Got it. How do we find Banner and what was that thing you did earlier?" She had kept that splinter she pulled out of the creature's spine to herself until now, but now she drew it out of her pocket and laid it on the table, clearly visible for her little audience.

"See that? It's called a focus. I already checked it out, it's ordinary wood. Your mage used it as a sort of 'remote' for his creatures. A golem, construct, animated corpse or zombie – if we really have to use that term - has no initiative, no will of its own like a living creature would. It has to be issued simple commands like 'Guard this', 'Protect me' or 'Kill everything in sight'. It also serves as a link between creator and construct. Sever the link and the magic fails and the golem collapses. Since it is an elaborate animated body, you can still decapitate it, it works just as fine. Failing that, just sever the spine to thwart the reanimation. Without impulses from the spinal cord, any brain function ceases. If that still isn't enough for you, kill it with fire." She took another sip from her coffee, even if it didn't get any better as it cooled. "I would love to help, but I have no means to track the necromancer or this sort of magic down. It is simply not my field of expertise, I'm afraid. But you have a lot of information on the mage to act on, while he will keep sending you his pets, as I imagine."

"Why do you say that?" This time it was Barton who asked, who had picked up the splinter and examined it with a fascinated expression on his face.

"You remember my particularly verbose speech about laws and the Powers that are and Necromancy in general? The procedure done to Dr Banner has nothing to do with the forbidden Arts, in fact carefully avoids them. Considering the sheer skill of your mage, he isn't a beginner who just grabbed the first ritual he could get his hands on, but he also respects the laws in this case, which means that he has something to lose at least in Death, so he or she – let's assume he for now - isn't deluded. He also either has an impressive talent in illusion and subterfuge or an ally proficient in these talents, since he managed to sneak a head onto the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier – which I am led to believe was cloaked, no less. To locate something like this, one would need a link or an inside source." Wanda stopped herself from talking further while she addressed Clint in an aside comment. "Please don't tell Fury, I don't want him to go on a Mole Hunt just because of some hunch of mine. Anyway, your sorcerer also managed to capture the Hulk, who is exceptionally hard to kill or even sedate when he could have gone for other creatures, monsters or even willing subjects and just augment them. This leads to the following conclusions: First, he's competent. There is absolutely no doubt about that. Second, he wants to spread chaos, but he doesn't go all out – considering all the pain he has gone through with his ritual, he could have done much worse. Also, he went to great lengths to capture and use the Hulk instead of killing him. He certainly has the skill, but he doesn't act on it. I wager he could have even built a real golem out of steel or something more indestructible, but he didn't. But that leads us straight to number three: It's personal. He captured a team member of yours right under your noses, lead you to believe him dead and lets you fight a zombiefied version of him. I think this was meant to hurt." She only had to look into their faces to know she was right on that account, even if they were too manly to admit it. "He will come for you again, I'm sure of it. Be prepared for it, and he will lead you straight to your friend. It seems that he is out for vengeance, and as such, there are bound to be mistakes at some point. There is also the question: Do you know of any mage you have angered enough to take so much pain just to spite you?"

"Loki." Clint uttered when she hadn't even finished the sentence.

"Loki." Stark agreed in a deadpan tone.

"Loki." Even Captain Rogers concurred without a second thought.

"That's what happens when you lock mass murderers up. They just keep breaking out and rampage some more. But shouldn't Thor be on our doorstep if Trollface broke out of prison?" Stark asked into the round, but he only received a helpless shrug from his Archer colleague. Rogers however had more to say on that matter and seemed very sincere about it.

"He'll come when it's necessary. If Loki broke out of prison, Thor is likely on his track." Tony Stark nodded silently and looked out of the window. Night had broken in, but the stars were hidden by clouds while rain pounded on the windows.

"The weather would certainly agree with him. Only the obligatory lightning is missing. " Pulling away from his chair, he now started to walk around the table restlessly, his movements tense and his face dead serious.

"It's also perfectly possible that Loki's still jailed and this whole mess is just some scientist's fault. I mean, the whole point of Extremis for example was nothing else than stimulating and regenerating cells. An altered version could do this speed-regeneration we saw earlier, even if it was a dead body or something cloned." He stroked his chin and continued to walk around the table, passing Wanda, who for the briefest moment could smell the faint scent of disinfectant and bandages under his , she wouldn't have noticed it, but right now, she was alert and wary concerning Tony Stark. Also, the fact that she was freshly showered, had just worked in a morgue and was very familiar with these kind of products helped the case greatly. There was no doubt: He was recovering from an injury. The way he talked about Extremis, whatever that was exactly, it was likely connected.

Barton seemed to notice her cluelessness and was quick to provide an explanation. "Extremis was a virus … serum, upgrade, I don't know the details. Basically, they tried to create another Super-Soldier-Serum and kinda succeeded. Thing is, soldiers were really Super Soldiers, breathed fire, grew back limbs and were nearly invulnerable, but they tended to explode randomly. Ugly business."

Exploding people? These guys in their search for a soldier-upgrade were just insane. Worse, there was no time to ponder about it, as Stark demanded attention. "Dr Ross works on this. Her field of expertise. She's promised to keep in touch."

"We shouldn't dismiss the Loki theory. Thor's portal's a no-go right now, isn't it? If he's here or was here, he should've left some trace, don't you think?" Rogers interjected thoughtfully.

"Right." Stark answered, thinking out aloud and dead serious. "Einstein-Rosen Bridge. Foster theory. But can passage through space-time continuum really leave residue? Radiation perhaps? Traces of energy signature, definitely, but what exactly? Measurable? Does S.H.I.E.L.D. have someone in their employ who knows about this? If not, I'll hire Hawking."

"Jane Foster, perhaps?" Clint Barton's almost provocative question caused Stark to raise an eyebrow.

"No kidding. What's with us all and brainy girlfriends?"

Before he could say anything more, he was roughly interrupted by the loud splintering of glass and flying shards that flew across the room. The conference table was savagely thrown down, but the muscle memory of every attendant in this room worked just fine, as they had all jumped from their chairs and assumed a defensive stance, despite the flying debris. At the place where just seconds before had been a window front, there was a gaping giant hole. A tall, towering figure stood inside it and used it to step slowly into the room, dripping due to the rain.

"I need your help." Thor's voice sounded grave as he raised his head. There was a short silence in the room, a state which Tony Stark couldn't leave this way.

"Hey Thor." He said flippantly. "Way to make an entrance. Didn't see that coming."


	6. Alekhine's Defense

"This project has officially gone to hell."

Natasha Romanoff didn't comment on the voice in her earpiece while she stared on the computer screen before her. Download was at twenty percent and all she had to do was wait. Her colleagues would have to clean the lower level; she had now time on her hands to be adequately annoyed that her cover had been blown after just two days of infiltration.

With a resigned sigh, she moved aside the unconscious body of the CEO of the company to gain better access to his computer. The old man didn't even stir. All his brilliance, his ruthless streak and head for business were something that Natasha might have respected, if he hadn't been been dangerous and engaged in illegal activities to the point were S.H.I.E.L.D considered him a threat. But she wasn't going to work with him now, although part of her had been looking forward to it. Instead of subtle espionage, this project had turned into a quick knee-jerk action. This wasn't how it was done. An infiltration job was long-term work which paid off best if no one noticed that something was gone, that blueprints, prototypes and drafts were copied right under their noses and that the secretary or cleaning personnel were suddenly gunning for a new job. This kind of work wasn't glamourous, but if done right, it was effective and tended to leave few dead bodies, not to mention the lack of post-processing and cover-up Fury had to do now that he had let his people charge in.

Download at twenty-eight percent. That was slow.

It was the most frustrating thing: she and nobody else was the reason for this failure of a mission. It should have been routine, but someone had recognized her as a participant in the Battle of Manhattan as a "heroine". What a curious word. That was the downside of doing work openly – sooner or later, one was recognized for better or worse. In her case, it effectively killed the role she was trained for or her life, the one thing she excelled in: Being a spy and infiltrator.

Her work was about being notorious, not recognizable, about being efficient and not a famous idol. She was no heroine. She would never be one. And yet, being a heroine had ruined her day, not to mention her current work.

"Got something for you, Natasha." Whatever her teammate's cheery demeanor suggested, it couldn't be good. But to her mild surprise, music cut into her ear. Initially, she wanted to follow her first instinct and chastise her colleague about unprofessional behaviour, but then she listened more closely. That was opera, no less. Smooth, serene, excellent soprano … it was exquisite, to be completely honest. Carol Danvers seemed to sense her fascination even over the radio and couldn't leave it uncommented.

"Believe it or not, it's Berlioz. You didn't see that coming, huh?"

Natasha allowed herself just the hint of an amused smile. "Opera isn't everyone's cup of tea."

"Yeah, but it might be yours. Aria's called Nuit paisbibblething or something, in case you want to research that later. Thought you could use a little cheering up. By the way, did you know that Sharon started to joke about our little trio? Fury's Angels, she said. More like Amazon Brigade..."

"Carol?"

"Yes?"

"I'd like to listen to some opera." Even though Natasha kept her voice in a dry and flat, but her mood had improved a little, which she didn't mask. She could almost hear her colleague smile, which was to be expected given her carefree and sporting nature. The download would take a while, the director of this company was still lying unconscious with his head on the table while her fellow agents made sure she was undisturbed. Natasha spared the man on the desk a last, scrutinizing glance, only to notice him stirring slowly. Sloppy. One quick, precise Chuto Strike against the carotid artery and he fell unconscious, this time for good.

When she concluded that he was indeed not waking up anytime soon, then turned towards the window. So strange. She had visited Lyon before, but in all this time, she had never took the time to enjoy the vista. But now, now she could relax, listen to some good music and savor the view; and Lyon at dusk was a spectacular sight indeed, one that even she could appreciate on an aesthetic level. The setting sun basked the buildings in golden radiance, mirrored in the Saône. Autumn was arriving with heavy steps, yet a gentle, warm breeze and bright skies with few clouds remained. In Europe, they didn't build their structures as high up as in the US, so she could even make out the shapes of the pedestrians. All of them had their own history, their own path. Most of them were probably returning home from work right now.

_Just return home – that's not for me._ She breathed deeply. Her job for the day was done, but it wasn't done well. It wasn't satisfactory at all to settle for so little when she thought she could attain more. There was nothing that could be done about it right now. For now, she settled for a nice view.

She was so deep in thought, she almost didn't notice the sunlight reflection of the sniper's scope's lens.

Well-honed reflexes kicked in and she rolled quickly to to cover, away from the large window and just in time before the glass shattered into thousands of pieces. Natasha didn't hear the shot, but the flying shards of glass and the gust of wind from the broken window spoke loud enough of the snipers action. She didn't concern herself with something so pesky as fear, instead, her mind worked flawlessly. There was just a small time window before the sniper could reload, so took a quick look out of the window, giving up her cover temporarily to verify the position of the assassin. But when she looked out of the window, checking the last location where she saw the reflection of the scope.

Then, the second shot fell.

Oddly enough, it wasn't aimed on her. Instead, she saw the shape of a man falling down from the building where she first had spotted the approaching danger. Her instincts told her to get into cover quickly, but her mind processed the data given much faster. The assassin fell from the roof of the other building, meaning the shot that killed him must have come from behind. Guessing the angle used for both shots was a simple work of math and led to a quick conclusion: The second sniper was way out of sight for her.

She could see that down below, there was a commotion building where the person that had meant to kill her had fallen. But he was most certainly dead now, shot by another person who must have shadowed him, given the angle and timing of the shot.  
That man down below had wanted to kill her. Another sniper shot him down. Normally, she would assume that one of her colleagues had done his job in watching her, but she was in charge of this operation and knew for a fact that nobody was. The CEO of the company hadn't been the target, as a quick glance told her immediately. He was alive, well and asleep, and if he had been the target, he would have been dead for sure.

Conclusion: She had been the target.

There were a lot of people who wanted to kill her and precious few who actually protected her. Who was the second sniper? Who sent him? It was no agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., that much was certain. For the first time in her life, she didn't know who thought her life precious enough to protect. How odd … just now she noticed that the opera music from earlier was still playing.

What game is played here? And more importantly: What are the rules?

* * *

When a murderous megalomaniac with a taste for world domination broke out of prison and was nowhere to be found, it was time for a stiff drink. So sayeth the infinite wisdom of Tony Stark, which was undisputed and generally accepted as an universal truth while he poured Scotch into several glasses and his companions sat in silence on the leather couch.

Thanks to Thor's destructive tendencies to windows, the whole group had changed the location to another floor altogether, which looked more personal in decoration. The carpet was grey and thick, the whole interior fashioned in a modern, if costly style, with overly large windows that would be more correctly classified as glassy walls. Grey and black were the dominant colours, balanced with the occasional cardinal red accessory. It wasn't cozy, but rather elegant and tasteful in design; the emphasis on discreet but artful geometric optics. This wasn't some random conference room, these were the living quarters of a man loving the logical and scientific while appreciating elegance in details. Mr Stark had already stated that he had chosen this room because it contained the nearest and most well-assorted bar available right now, the one and only reason to be needed, of course.

But aside from that, Stark hadn't spoken since Thor's arrival, he had just calmly guided them all to the new location, prepared the drinks and handed every single one of them a glass, including herself. Even though he did include her, Wanda still felt a little like an intruder in a very personal meeting between friends, which was probably an astute observation on her part. Also, it was apparently the one time when all these strong men needed their Scotch neat. Wanda looked at her own glass and was almost sure she wouldn't drink it – she would rather get high on coffee and sugar. Perhaps she could pour the Scotch into coffee? Or coffee into that glass of Scotch. Would that do any good? It would probably a violation of some Drinking code, so it was best not to pursue this thought any further for now.

There was a moment of silence which Wanda used to observe and assess the people within the room once again. Barton leaned forward, elbows on his knees and morosely staring into his glass. How odd, she didn't know him like this. Clint was usually easy-going, quiet and a little quirky; he could be acidic at times, even to the point of being outright mean to others and to himself as well, but these were exceptions. This kind of sour mood didn't come easily to him, and it occurred to Wanda that something must have happened during the Chitauri invasion that really had gotten to him. Tony Stark looked equally grim and sullen, raising his glass to the other people in the room without even looking at them, while Captain Rogers had leaned deep into his seat, looking pensive. Then there was Thor, the Asgardian she had heard so much about. She had seen some strange costumes in her day, so his armour wasn't something she was overly concerned or amused by. The man himself fit his flowery descriptions from the myths she grew up with perfectly: He was indeed a tall, muscular man with flowing blonde hair, fair complexion and even a beard. His eyes and countenance were that of a man who was used to laughing, not to be weighed down with worry as he was now. Stories described him as a dim-witted, but lovable boisterous warrior who fought with honour and courage and styled himself an advocate for humanity – that's what mythology told. That's what Agatha had told. How did she know that when Thor had visited Earth just a couple of times in the present? Was mythology that accurate? Hard to believe – she had to discard everything she had known about Thor and learn for herself what he was all about. One thing however she did determine for herself in this very moment: This man in viking armour who sat on the couch next to her, drinking his Scotch out of a beer-glass was no god. He was no deity at all; he was a powerful Alien whose very presence and interference had shaped Earth's culture, only to abandon it for centuries afterwards. In the best case, he had had some sort of plan, in the worst case, he had inserted himself casually.

"How exactly did Loki escape?" Stark's voice sounded a little pejorative, as if he had to restrain himself not to openly mock Asgardians in general and Asgardian jails in particular. He was cut off rather quickly by Captain Rogers, who for the second time this day, appeared to be firm, steadfast and decisive.

"Doesn't matter. It happened." He underlined his words with a gesture that looked final and determined. "It only matters what we can do now. Thor, is there any way we can locate Loki?" The Asgardian gulped down some of his drink, then slowly shook his head in deep regret. It was pitiable how this big, strong man tried so hard not to look miserable, but he failed. He wore his heart on his sleeve and couldn't help it.

"Fleeing his captivity is not the only thing Loki made himself guilty of. Our father thinks that he stole an artifact from the vaults." He breathed deeply, as if scarcely believing it. "It's called the Infinity Gauntlet."

"Everything with "Infinity" in it's description can only be a hoax or really bad for business." Stark's snappish comment had a feeling on it as if it just had tumbled out accidentally before he could really think about it. He immediately recognized this and waved it aside. "Never mind me. What's with this gauntlet? What does it do?"

"Everything. You have a word attributed to your gods to describe their power: Omnipotence. It's exactly what it does. This gauntlet grants omnipotence."

Wanda frowned at the thought of it. Agatha had made sure that she had read thoroughly about this device. It was true what Thor said; this thing was able to grant mastery in every aspect of sorcery imaginable, and thus, as he put it, omnipotence. She had always questioned the wisdom of the being that originally had created the gauntlet, but that was beside the point right now. Wasn't this thing disassembled? That much power was just too much for one being to handle and would surely lead to insanity and disaster sooner or later. While she tried to recollect the memory of what she had read about it, Thor continued.

"It was powered by six gems, which were broken out and scattered so that nobody would find them and assemble it again. At least three of them are here on Midgard. My father thought it wise to hide them here, as your Realm is very young and nobody would guess ..." She stopped listening when she heard Clint objecting while trying to wrap his head around this. The discussion he started had merit; it was right to question the creation of such a thing, it was right to question that – rather than destroying it or keeping it for himself – Odin decided to make another Realm than his own a target by hiding the gems in there. It was also right to question Odin's reasoning in this, but she didn't really listen to the disputation that occurred now. Someone criticized Odin's actions, Thor defended them, discussion heated up – it was nothing she could stop now with that much testosterone in the room, nor did she want to. They had to talk about this, but they didn't need her for that, so she leaned back, closed her eyes and tried hard to remember what Agatha had tried to teach her, blanking out the conversion the men were having.

So nothing less than the Infinity Gauntlet was stolen, an artifact so rare and elusive that only few people alive knew about this and even then, information about it remained obscure. How did Agatha even know about this thing and why was she so adamant that Wanda learned about it? Perhaps the old Witch had seen something coming, had divined or guessed what was about to come. Agatha had been as secretive about her sources of information as she had been accurate. In all these years in which she had trained Wanda, she had never been wrong about anything, about people, about incidents, about the future in general. It could well be that some insight had set the path right now. If so, she had to accept that something like a cosmos-destroying device existed. Agatha knew about it and knew that this group would somehow be involved.

This device was powered through gems, and at least three of them were scattered on Earth somewhere, every single one representing one aspect of power. Powerful artifacts like this tended to attract attention from magic users like herself, so it was to be expected that at some point or the other, someone had noticed and taken possession of one of them. They could be anywhere. Also, the Gauntlet itself was useless without the Gems, as far as she knew. If the Jötunn stole the device, he would come back to Earth sooner or later. Perhaps he was responsible for the events in New Salem? Doubtful. Agatha knew what was coming and she always talked about this Loki like he was only a small fish in the company pond. Perhaps his invasion had only been an attempt to acquire the Soul Gems scattered on Earth? That was a rather crude move for the so-called God of Fire, Mischief, Lies and Intrigue. Oh, the humanity! Infinity Gauntlet, omnipotence, Soul Gems, end of everything and everyone – that was too big for her. That was decidedly too large an issue for a mere apprentice and failed medic like her. Given that the magic communities were almost ridiculously secretive, there was only one person on this entire world that would know, because knowing it was part of his job description. Why hadn't she thought of him when Clint had asked her about someone with competence? The person she thought about should also be available for this right now, if he wasn't already working on the matter. And she hadn't even spared him a thought, which caused her to to squeeze the bridge of her nose in an effort to get the stupidity out of her head.

"That's not all." She heard Thor's concerned voice and now paid attention again. The troubled look on his face was all too obvious; he evidently seldom concealed his feelings. "It was me who was tasked to hide the Gems here on Midgard." Oh, good. That meant that he knew where these things were and could retrieve them, couldn't he? Why did he look so anguished then and emptied his glass in one quaff? "But I was too occupied with other things … unimportant now. So I left it to my younger brother."

"What?" Tony Stark looked as stunned as she felt with the reveal. His appreciative whistle was meant to taunt, and it was biting humour indeed, while Clint and Captain Rogers where still busy gathering their jaws from the floor. "Let me see if I get this straight: You were charged with hiding the most dangerous devices imaginable on Earth, but you thought it would be …?"

"Boring." Thor sounded unhappy and conscience-stricken.

"Boring." Instead of becoming angry, as Wanda expected him to, Stark instead shrugged helplessly. For a moment, there was the slightest indication that he would pull a face, but he apparently decided against it and turned to Captain Rogers, although now he sounded as if he was jesting. "Can't chastise him on that. I'm not big on responsibility in cosmic dimensions either. Somebody else, perhaps?"

"Be fair, please. The last sightings of Extraterrestials were sometime in the 14th Century." Wanda jumped in with a more gentle and kind manner than she had trusted herself with. Oddly enough, she wasn't angry at all, just a little bewildered. "If all I've read and heard about Asgardians is correct, you ..." She looked at Thor. "... were barely out of your teens back then. I can't remember the last time I've seen a teenager acting responsibly. That task was most likely just too big for you to handle, so the fault isn't yours." It was Odin's, who used those who couldn't grasp the importance of the task given. Perhaps that had been the plan? What did wise and all-seeing Odin plan? She wouldn't know. To her surprise, Thor didn't react much to her support in this matter; he didn't nod, he didn't insist on his responsibility, he just looked at her warily. It occurred to her that he probably noticed her presence for the first time now, since she had been silent and discreet before.

Steve Rogers however took the opportunity to steer the conversation to a more productive course. "Fair enough. Let's focus on what we can do instead of casting blame around. That didn't go well the last time." For someone who had just been told that there was a doomsday device on the loose and the parts to run that thing were in the grasp of lunatic who already had tried to conquer Earth, Steve Rogers was remarkably calm, sensible and focused. It was exemplary, soothing and even a little inspiring.

"Thor, you have to have some idea where these Gems are. You must have been at least close to Loki while he hid them." But Thor shook his head again.

"This realm has changed so much since my last stay. I don't recognize the cities, the landscape or buildings. The borders and names of your countries have changed. Even your language has changed."

"Makes sense." Tony Stark, of all people, now nodded in sympathy, even if he looked insincere and cheeky about it, stroking his chin. "It's really hard to find a place without guidance or a map when you don't know what it looks like. I can't recall what mission exactly I did three years, three months and thirteen days ago. Perhaps I was at home, perhaps I was in my suit. I can't tell from memory, and mine's good. Must be harder if you jump between worlds and time's a little funny for you anyway." Steve Rogers nodded in agreement.

"So, you have to make yourself familiar with at least four hundred years of Earth history in the middle ages and calculation of time." He glanced at Thor with a look that suggested that he would hate to be in the Asgardian's shoes right now. Thor himself raised both eyebrows and breathed deeply, although Wanda doubted that he really and in all earnestness grasped what it meant to make oneself familiar with the early Middle Ages, chaotic and dark as they were. She also felt that now was the time to mention that the sheer importance of this issue was more than she could handle.

"It's more like eight-hundred years. That's when the Norse Mythology reportedly left its first hard evidence, but the myth itself must have formed centuries earlier. On the bright side, you have "only" to work with European history." Compared to Thor with his rich voice or Steve Rogers in all his determination, her own voice sounded soft and quiet. It struck her as odd, as she didn't consider herself shy or submissive. Or soft, for that matter. "This Loki is on the move, so we are running out of time, yes?"

"Not really." Thor answered, frowning. He had long since put down his glass and now rubbed his hands together as if they were cold, but it seemed like a gesture of insecurity. "There are several parties looking for him right now, Asgard being one of them. He is on the run, yes. But I know him – he calculates, he plans and he is, above all, patient. He will cover his tracks with diligence and only then move to action. It can be days, weeks, even months if we are lucky. We still have time." It sounded like he barely believed his own words and needed to repeat them with more emphasis in order to make himself believe. "We have time." For a short moment, doubt was lying heavily in the room like a cloud.

Wanda wasn't convinced either, but she concurred dutifully in an effort to relieve the situation a little. "Alright. We have time. I've heard about the Infinity Gauntlet and about the Soul Gems mentioned. That somewhat exceeds my abilities and is, by its very definition, a magical threat to Earth. I know, it sounds absurd that one tiny thing can be that dangerous, but I can only confirm Thor's claims. If all I know is true, it can not only destroy, but undo all of creation. This isn't exaggerated." She felt a little like she had to explain the danger of an atomic bomb to a person who had no conception of such a thing.

"You shouldn't know about that." Thor interjected flatly, regarding her again with the wary look she noticed earlier. Although it was inconsiderate and she felt sorry almost immediately afterwards, she didn't incur and instead spared him only a disapproving glance before continuing.

"Clint, I know you asked me, but this is too big for me. I didn't think of it when you asked me about it, but there is one sorcerer who operates independently. Indeed, tasks like this are his explicit responsibility." Before Barton could react, Thor barged in again.

"Wait. You have a Sorcerer Supreme again?"

"It's a relatively new development. The Merlin of Britain was a concept that didn't proof itself in the long run. Too local. Also, too well-known." She remembered that the concept itself lost its appeal in the 12th Century, when the inquisition was forming and started purifying. But that was a topic for another time. "I recommend to enquire the Doctor."

"You're horseshittin' me." Tony Stark's statement was deadpan. "Forget it. I'm not buying this one. Besides, if anyone is going to build the TARDIS, it will be me."

"That's the first time anyone gets the joke." Wanda chuckled, then paused a moment to recall the information she got on the person she mentioned. "Anyway, "The Doctor" is nobody else than Dr Stephen Strange. He lives a few blocks from here. Ah … Bleecker Street. My apologies, I forgot the house number." It was of no matter, apparently, since Mr Stark pulled out his mobile immediately and started looking the information up. He was clearly surprised by what he found, as a pointed raised eyebrow indicated.

"There he is. Dr. Stephen Strange, Neurosurgeon and Occult Consultant. 177A , Greenwhich Village, Bleecker Street. He even has a home phone. How quaint." A man of deeds, he dialed and rose from his seat, getting a little distance between him and the group so that he could talk without ruffle. While Stark talked on the phone, Clint turned to her with a hushed voice.

"He's hiding in plain sight, isn't he?"

"I think it amuses him that he is thought to be a charlatan while simultaneously being very easy to find for magic users. He also told me that for every ten poltergeist cases brought to him by hapless people, there is one genuinely fascinating project that really catches his attention. I've met the Doctor a few years ago. He's a pleasant fellow, very competent in both of his crafts. If you ever meet him, don't let yourself be fooled; he stopped aging late in his forties, but he should be well in his eighties right now."

Barton started grinning at the revelation. "Well, aging seems to be out of fashion lately with octogenarians." He was outright smirking in Steve Roger's direction, who himself lowered his gaze and smiled in a rather cautious, perhaps even forced manner.

"Too soon?" Barton pressed him, outwardly casual, but Wanda could tell that in reality, he wasn't really sure if he had overstepped a line. He had a minimum of success as Captain Rogers managed to look a little impish in his response.

"So close. Any day now."

That was the moment Mr Stark arrived at the coffee-table again, looking again a little helpless and confused. He sighed deeply and resigned "Well, I … uh … spoke with a guy named Wong. First wanted to put me off. Then I dropped your name ..." He looked at Wanda. "... and he started singing. Your Doctor's already on these gem-thing-devices and has been for a few weeks. He also prepared a package for you before he left. Will be delivered to this tower. You can stay here. You're actually making sense every now and then." He then addressed the whole group. "He also left a message for us. 'Keep doing what you're doing. I'll contact you when I know more. Everything will be fine. With kind regards.' I think I like that guy. Wonder why his secretary didn't tell me when I introduced myself. Weird. We'll sort this out later."

"Then we keep doing what we are doing." Rogers claimed, rising from his seat. "And that's not sitting around. Thor, you have some catching up to do. We'll put something together, but that'll take a few hours. Stark, we talked about your suit, now we need it. Double time now. Also, we need to contact Jane Foster and put her on the portals, if she isn't working on this already. Miss Maximoff, do your research on Loki's tools and the Doctor's package. Barton, get in touch with Fury, we need all the intel and help we can get. And I … " He sighed. "... still have tons of security footage that has only partially been sighted. Perhaps I can find something that could lead us to Dr. Banner. It's a long shot, but a small chance is better than none." That all sounded like a plan and it would have been really uplifting if Wanda hadn't seen Thor and how he regarded her with silent, but indisputable distrust. How did she deserve that?


	7. A Knight on the side cannot abide

Loki was near.

He was so close, Sif could practically smell his fear. Gripping her spear tighter, she glanced at her companions, who despite the dazzling scenery were also alert to the point of tense. They had followed Loki's trail onto this point in Nornheim, an Asgardian province who prided itself in its relative independence. The trickster had apparently gone complacent, since he had lingered in the capital's library for days, long enough for someone to look through his disguise and become suspicious. This suspicion had eventually allowed Sif to take up pursuit. They chased him relentlessly through the streets of the capital for hours, playing a lethal game of cat and mouse. Somewhere along the way, Volstagg couldn't keep up and got left behind, but Sif didn't care; he was certainly well and she had to keep up the chase, and now this decision bore fruit. A little while ago, she had been so close to the fleeing Loki that she had even grazed him with her spear, drawing blood, but in a frustrating turn of events, he had escaped from her grasp. This had been only a few minutes ago, as Sif saw with no small amount of satisfaction that the blood on her spearhead still glistened in the midday sun.

The chase had led them here, to a small clearing in the forest near the capital, or rather what the people of Nornheim called a forest. Most of the trees were artificially grown out of a white crystalline matter these lands where so famous for, shining brightly in the light of the sun even to the smallest branches and leaves. Sif had thought that Loki would choose a dark place to hide, but she never would have imagined that instead of this, he would conceal his presence in one of the brightest places in this province, hiding in the brilliance of thousands of reflecting lights.

Against the scintillating odds, she noticed the shade of dark green fabric behind one of the crystalline trees not far from her position. There … there he was, hiding behind the heavily overgrown trunk of a tree and not moving out of fear that he would be detected. Sif knew that Loki had always had trouble upholding or casting his spells when he was injured, so it was entirely possible that he still thought himself magically concealed from their views. Not this time. Now she had just to spring the trap and make sure that this slippery bastard didn't escape again.

She didn't even need to nod her head in the general direction of her discovery – a discreet glance was all Fandral and Hogun needed to understand what she intended to do. Hogun even feigned discovery and investigation in another direction, which allowed Fandral and herself to circle Loki's presumed location. Again she made eye-contact with her companion, both of them nodding in silent agreement how to finish their plan to ambuscade the so-called master of illusion. But when they both spun around behind their covers, weapons pointed at the place where their target was supposed to be, he was gone.

In his place, only a cloak hung from the tree, carefully attached to the crystalline vegetation. Despite herself, Sif practically snarled in frustration while Fandral contented himself with merely a disappointed look on his face. He also relaxed visibly, sheathing his sword in one quick, fluid motion. That small gesture was enough to boil up enough anger in Sif to even snap at him.

"Are you _insane_? He's still around!"

But Fandral, dashing and gallant Fandral who jumped to any and every challenge as long as it tested his blade suddenly looked serious, which was contradictory in itself. After a blink, this was gone and he smiled it away with all the charm he possessed.

"No, Sif. He isn't. That cloak there? It's slightly sun-bleached and looks a little damp. That thing has been hanging here for at least a few days. But knowing our mutual "friend", it could also be weeks or even months, don't you think? He's gone for sure by now." He placed his hands on his hips, almost looking a little wistful in his reminisces. "I've used this little trick quite often in my day. It never fails to put off any kind of nasty pursuer. They look for you in a completely different direction, and while they are occupied, you run as though Gjalp herself was on your heels." He wrinkled his nose. "Norns, that bloody Gjalp-woman was _hideous_."

Sif rolled her eyes, feeling like hitting something, but the only things available were Fandral, the arriving Hogun and the trees, which would probably give a symphony of clangor if she attempted such a thing. She settled instead for ripping Loki's decoy cloak from its position and threw it on the ground with gusto. It still didn't make her feel any better.

A few seconds of uncomfortable silence followed which was only broken by Fandral's weak attempt to appear chipper in the face of the humiliation of failure.

"Well, that's that. No point standing around and wringing our hands, is there?" While Sif could only glare at him, she noticed that her two companions exchanged a barely perceivable glance, understanding flickering in Fandral's eyes before he turned to her once more. "I think we forgot Volstagg somewhere in the town. I'm going to search for him. I'll meet you two at the town gates." He bowed courteously to her before departing swiftly. Maybe he just wanted to defuse the situation, but Sif felt somewhat mocked.

She watched as Fandral walked away, apparently light-hearted and unconcerned as always. When she turned around, she noticed that Hogun was watching her intently, his arms folded before his chest, his gaze stern. At first, she tried to ignore him - she knew that look, knew that that this was his way of scolding people, let them burn under his the pressure of the steely rigor he radiated until they realized their mistakes and felt adequately sorry for it. There was just one problem with the situation: She was right.

"What do you want from me?" Even her low, almost dangerous tone wasn't enough to deter his gaze and he didn't answer. Why? What did she do wrong? It seemed like an eternity before Hogun finally decided to speak, slowly, but sharp in tone nonetheless.

"You want to kill him." He stated flatly.

"So?"

"The Allfather wants him alive."

"I don't understand why." Anger was brewing up inside her, but it felt more like righteous fury that had been held back for far too long. "After all he's done, he should have been executed four times over. Why didn't the Allfather give that command? He doesn't even acknowledge him as his son anymore; why not be done with it?"

For the first time in many years, she now detected an unfamiliar look on her second's face. Normally, Hogun the Grim lived up to his name, his facial expression never showing anything less than utmost sincerity. But now, she could have sworn that his features softened ever so slightly for just the briefest of moments. His body was still taut and his voice steadfast, betrayed only by a tiny indication of mildness that was so unlike him. "Sif, he can't. Odin has sacrificed for all of us many times before, but this time, it's different. He can't. He doesn't know how."

"So he just contents himself with doing_ nothing_? I won't have it!" Her voice could have cut to stone, she was practically hissing. She realized however that it was Hogun, the silent and strong Vanir she was snapping at. He was not her enemy, and she should know better. Closing her eyes, she summoned all her strength to calm herself. She had to explain herself, otherwise, her companion just might leave her or worse, tell Odin about her plan. "It's important for Thor. As long as Loki lives, Thor will never know peace and you know that. I'm doing this for him."

The stoic warrior was still looking at her, as if he expected her to continue further. Suddenly, Sif felt like a small child being scolded for being caught in flagranti while doing some mischief. She struggled for words, not knowing how she could put her feelings into words without letting it sound so … wrong. So petty.

"You've seen Loki; we've all seen him. He's changed forever. He will never be the same again; we all know it, but Thor refuses to see it. If he had his way, Loki would be given chance after chance, and everything would turn just more miserable." She was surprised that her voice sounded so anguished, that she felt so much anguish. Her resolve was strong, why couldn't her voice and posture simply follow?

"You are going to lose him if you go through with this." Hogun was by his very nature firm and intense, even more so now, as his words carried the weight of an ugly truth she had denied as of yet. Thor would never forgive her, even if she succeeded, but strangely enough, she didn't feel deterred in the slightest.

"I know that. He will never make this decision and I'm his friend, so it's my burden to make it for him." Unwillingly, she had cast her eyes down and looked at the ground, right on Loki's decoy cloak. "That's the sacrifice I have to make for his sake." It was a sad duty she had loaded on her shoulders, but it was the one and most important thing she had ever done for her friend, the one that mattered most to her.

"Noble. But … is this really the only reason?"

"What are you impli …?" She wanted to flare up, but she was cut short by a howl of pain in the distance that chilled her heart. This area was practically deserted. There was no-one here except for her and her companions.

"Fandral!" She breathed, darting off into the woods, followed closely by Hogun, who followed closely on her heels.

They found him not far away, lying in a puddle of his own blood, choking and barely clinging to his dear life.

While the grim warrior calmly tended to the wounds, Sif could only stand dumbstruck. She searched for shock over the grave injuries of one of her dearest friends, but she found none. It was painfully obvious what happened here; small throwing knives, sharpened by skill and magic stuck out of Fandral's chest and his throat, and Loki favored these weapons as well as these target zones on the body. The swashbuckler had been worked on with the cruelty of method, his injuries severe enough to take him out of the hunt for several days, if not weeks, but also just barely not enough to kill him.

Loki must have waited to single one of them out, then he had struck. When had the hunters become prey? This was wrong; it wasn't supposed to be like that. Sif turned her attention inside again, but she didn't find shock or even surprise this time either, neither did she find pity for any of them, be it hunted, hunter or confused victim. All she could find was the burning desire for vengeance.

* * *

In retrospect, she should have known that attending the autopsy of the Hulk-creature would make her sick. To be more precise, Wanda should have known a few years ago, from the moment the decided to attend postmortems for her clinical elective, but back then, she had been too stubborn and stupid to even acknowledge her sensitivity concerning this faculty. But then again, if she had done so, it wouldn't have saved her from her current predicament in any way. Moreover, her personal attendance hadn't changed a thing in her view; the subject had been previously animated by necromancy, full stop, and for that conclusion, no autopsy was needed. While the Hulk's anatomy was certainly intriguing, she would have much preferred to read about it in the autopsy report. But for that matter, what she just witnessed was not a proper postmortem per se, rather a dissection, or butchery in the most common of senses.

But now she was back in the Stark Tower, thank goodness. She took a short moment of time to rest her head against the cool surface of the elevator cabin. Cold – cold was good. Cold somehow alleviated the feeling of nausea to a level where it could possibly ignored. That would be welcome, as she would hate to appear such a sissy when the S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent beside her was watching. She risked a subtle sideways glance in said agent's direction, only to conclude that he had better things to do than laugh at her, like sorting the papers of the thick file he brought with him. Like most of his colleagues, he was a walking suit, but he had a nondescript face with warm eyes and receding hairline. More than the man, she was interested in the files he was sorting – it contained even a few pictures, and from what she glimpsed, they showed mainly herself at a younger age, about ten years ago, and her surviving family. One of those pictures in particular caught her eye: It must have been shot very recently and showed her father and both her siblings – her twin brother and her half-sister - in what seemed to be one of the more carefree conversations. She could practically see them before her eyes: Her father, silent and strong, calmly urging his son Pietro to be more patient while light-hearted Lorna joked it away. All of them in the Lehnsherr family tree looked very much alike: Statuesque but wiry build, almond-shaped and light-colored eyes, lean faces, smooth features, slightly pronounced cheekbones, slender hips. Both Pietro and her father also could pride themselves of silvery hair and a relatively strong jaw. The picture also showed that Lorna had evidently dyed her green hair in a brownish hue. It was so strange; Wanda hadn't talked to her father since the day she had been caught by Hawkeye ten years ago, and she hadn't traded words with Pietro or Lorna in a long time. It had hurt before, and now it hurt again. She wondered if she could ask that man for this particular picture.

That, however, had to wait, for there was a much more important question in the room. Why would the Agent browse through _her_ files while she was standing right beside him?

"Excuse me, but if I can answer any questions in regards to your reading, I would be delighted to do so, Agent Coulson." She stated in the most polite fashion she could manage, straightening herself, while she peered at the files in his hand in an almost shameless manner. If he wanted to, he could reprimand her now. If not, she would take his behavior as exactly what she suspected it to be: a silent "We are watching you"-statement from S.H.I.E.L.D., nothing more, nothing less.

The Agent barely looked up, but his illusion to be absent-minded was a pretense he didn't put much effort in. "We mostly know what we can expect from you."

Although Wanda felt slightly threatened by his comment, she noted for herself that she liked his voice – pleasant and equanimous. That didn't change the fact however that he was revealing that her movements had been surveyed for Fate knows how long, and there wasn't even a need to bother with covering that fact up. "And what would that be?" She asked before she knew it and despite of herself, not wanting to confront that man any further. But to her surprise, his lips curled into a smile, albeit a little forced. That was all the answer she got from him, which was evidence enough to point to the not-so-subtle statement his organization wanted to make. Sighing in frustration, she stepped out of the elevator.

She had been given access to the laboratory previously occupied by Dr. Banner, and his ghost seemed to loom behind every corner. The whole floor deep beneath the surface was designed to keep the Hulk in check, with thick walls, massively built furniture and a lot of security protocols firmly put into place. But it was also a floor where Dr. Banner had conducted his experiments and pursued his scientific interests, which had made the need protection against radiation paramount while Wanda couldn't even guessed the purpose of the equipment and devices the laboratory was flooded with. But the high security also meant that the floor was built to house Bruce Banner alone most of the time, and he had insisted to refrain from cleaning personnel.

So, the first thing Wanda had done after setting herself on a desk that looked mostly unused, she had armed herself with rug, mop and bucket and started scrubbing. It was so much easier to clean other people's messes than one's own. She had noticed that while Dr. Banner was by no means an overly neat person, he had a strange order in the piles of notes and chaos, one that she didn't comprehend or dare to disturb. So she had cleaned around places that looked like they were abandoned in the middle of some work and had left any documents or instruments untouched as good as she could, only lifting them and putting them carefully back exactly into place when she felt that she had no other choice whatsoever if the war against bacteria was to be won. Bruce Banner was also apparently something of a forgetful sweet-tooth, since she had found no less than four pastries that might have been doughnuts in another lifetime. Complete and utter cleaning was the only answer to this revolting habit, but she had spared the two well-hidden candy stashes, merely checked the contents for date of expiry, but otherwise left them alone. Despite the fact that she most likely prevented Hulk-radiated doughnut-mould from taking over the world, she had made herself a mental note to thoroughly apologize to Dr. Banner if he ever returned, bake him some pastries and otherwise leave his personal workspace untouched.

That's why she was so taken aback and even a little irritated when she discovered that all the instruments, devices and notes she had so carefully avoided were disturbed, shoved aside and replaced by new ones. There was even a carelessly thrown bag occupying the chair that Wanda had used to sit on when doing research the last two days. Or at least, that was the furniture she had allowed herself to use and leave Dr. Banners privacy mostly intact. This plan had been evidently thrown to pieces – not violently, but without care. In the center of the laboratory, presented like a piece of art was a strange spear-like weapon that in the witch's eyes glowed with magic. This one too was circled with devices that a layman like her couldn't possibly identify – she only knew that she had avoided them while cleaning. And just when she thought that the sheer space within this laboratory couldn't possibly be filled, a newcomer appeared and proved her wrong.

Said newcomer was standing not far away from the magical staff, deep in a conversation with Steve Rogers – that man seemed to be everywhere. The woman herself was petite, and as Wanda had to admit to herself with a little envy, rather pretty. They both must have been roughly the same age, but this woman's brown eyes shone brightly while she spoke, her features delicate and soft, her complexion flawless and her fine chestnut hair worn loose. This woman wasn't even pretty anymore; she was by all means beautiful.

So this was Jane Foster whom she heard so much about. From all the talk, she must have been a sweet girl with a strong sense of morality, paired with a genius intellect. It was her that had inspired Thor to take Earth under his protection – that at least was the word. She also looked very lively and enthusiastic while explaining Captain Rogers about what sounded like theories about radiation. Her conversational partner just smiled and nodded occasionally, but appeared to be genuinely interested.

Somehow, Wanda couldn't shake the feeling that she would do this woman an enormous injustice by becoming acquainted to her in this catty mood, so she decided to avoid introductions until feeling a little better and more sociable. This was easier than originally expected; when she and the S.H.I.E.L.D.-Agent approached, Miss Foster turned around and acknowledged Wanda's presence by making the briefest of eye-contacts. But it was the Agent that really caught her interest, as her expression froze as the recognition sank in. "You … I know you. You're dead." She didn't really sound hostile, but for a surprised accusation it was meant to be, her voice had slightly too much of an edge.

Wanda jumped to the chance of weaseling herself out of the conversation. "You know Agent Coulson?" She asked in the most timid fashion she could manage, greeted Captain Rogers with a respectful nod, only to quietly withdraw. While she was here, she could as well make herself useful, so she neared that staff-like device that had piqued her interest earlier to inspect it more closely. Placing both palms on the desk, she bend over slightly to get a better look at the shining core of the staff – no, it was more of a spear, now that she could see it close up.

In the background, she could hear Phil Coulson trying to be diplomatic. "Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated ..." But he never got to finish the sentence.

"What are you doing? You know that's Loki's staff?" This time, Jane Foster addressed her. Wanda involuntarily rolled her eyes, which was thankfully hidden from the woman who barked at her derriere. _That's her place as well and I'm intruding from her perspective. She's right. Don't be so rude._

So she turned around, putting her hands folded behind her back and kept her face as straight and polite as possible, while she modulated her voice to sound meek and demure. "Loki is a name I have heard a lot since I arrived." _Don't be rude!_ But that voice of reason was quickly silenced by simple stubbornness. She knew that this had been her cue to politely greet Jane Foster and introduce herself. She also realized that she acted wrong, and she would regret that childish diva-attitude of her ego rather sooner then later.

"Well … he invaded New York, killed hundreds of good people AND mind-controlled a dear friend of mine, so yes, he might be important." Jane Foster revealed a lot in this little speech, not only that she had strong feelings about this invasion - naturally, this was her home that was attacked, the people she knew that where slaughtered, and her friend that was used like a tool. But she showed also determination, stubbornness and above all, _spirit_. All in all, even if currently not likable, she was still an impressive woman, as Wanda hated to admit to herself.

"My sympathies." Even if it sounded rehearsed, Wanda felt herself softening up, all her frustration melting when she pictured the helplessness that woman must be feeling - losing friends and colleagues was something that she had experienced mere days ago. "It's not easy recovering from mind control, and your friend will find himself in an unusual predicament. We have to make it count." There was no comfort she could give or this spirited young lady would accept for the act of violence done to her friend. She attempted to turn around to investigate the staff further, but was yet again interrupted by an outraged Jane Foster.

"How can you be so cold about this?" The astrophysicist sounded almost hurt, but more than that, she was annoyed, even appalled. What was that coming from? Was she now held responsible and accused not to care? It just wasn't turned to anger; when she saw the missing buildings in this bustling city that was great and mighty New York, she just didn't feel angry. She felt rather sad, and sadness was something she forbade herself right now.

"Anger is not my natural state, Miss Foster." She had calmed down and her voice had returned to the gentle, smooth tone she was accustomed to, but that only served to provoke the other woman even further, it seemed. Wanda side-glanced to the two gentlemen in the room, who both looked awfully uncomfortable, eying the exit and obviously ready to flee the scene, and she couldn't fault them for that.

So it came more or less as a surprise that she saw something glimmering in the corner of her eye, turned her attention to it and frowned when she discovered familiar symbols on the scepter that was so important to all of them. "You couldn't tap the energy within, no?" Wanda's gaze was fixed on the staff, which made her question look like a side-note.

"No ..." If one could get drunk on anger and frustration, Jane Foster had just sobered up from one moment to the other, stepping closer and appearing now like the professional astrophysicist she was. "No, but I don't know why. There's clearly the tesseract's energy signature, but it's inaccessible. I first thought it was the material, but that's a simple ferrous alloy with a few precious metals molten in. Radiation tests have been made over the last year, but I can't imagine that radiation could have this effect on an energy source ..."

"You can't tap it because it's warded against humans." Clever. It appeared as if the previous wielder of this scepter had allowed the possibility of it falling into the wrong hands. Warding an item against a specific race was a time-consuming and complicated process, one that required intimate knowledge and high skill in magic. Failing that, blood sacrifices helped a lot as well, and from the look of things, this ward was made with the latter method. So crude, so sloppy, so disgusting.

Wanda slowly reached out for the staff's hilt, feeling the magic prickle on her skin, and bracing herself, grasped it carefully. She immediately felt her focus faltering, some force scratching at the fortress of her mind. _Kill the rage. Kill the fear. Kill the pain._ Clenching her teeth, she steeled her mental defense, which was more brittle than she was used to. Only when she did felt secure enough, she finally closed her hand around the hilt, feeling the magic pulsing inside. The spear was heavy, heavier than she thought, strange in design, too short for a proper spear – nothing human to be sure. The blades at the head of it looked as vicious as the magic inside felt, while simultaneously feeling like something that more distant and yet much more broad and powerful, at the point of almost being overwhelming. After the initial flood, it steadied itself on a constant pressure on the mind, like a background headache.

More importantly, she could access the magic within.

"A racist ward. It doesn't recognize the X-Gene." There were small beads of sweat on her forehead, she was shaking ever so slightly, but felt elated nevertheless. That was one of the most heavy enchantments she had ever seen, and she had managed to pass it and successfully, if barely evaded the mind-controlling feature of the device. "I would recommend psych evaluations for everyone who has been in the proximity. It radiates a field ..."

"Wait." The astrophysicist interrupted again. Couldn't that woman let people finish their sentences? "You're a mutant?"

"And a witch, thank you very much." Wanda felt far too exultant to feel threatened or offended now, even if Miss Foster herself sounded more skeptical than hostile. If the witch would take offense at any slight thrust upon her, imagined or real, she would soon go on a rampage of destruction, and that would really be despicable. Not to mention rude.

"Mutant?" Steve Rogers, visibly confused and concerned at the same time, looked at all of them in an imploring manner, one after another.

Jane Foster pursed her lips and obviously didn't feel obliged to elaborate, and Wanda studied the scepter in her hand uncomfortably, but only because it hid the view to her feet. She couldn't say why the issue didn't bother her with Miss Foster, but right now, her elation turned into something that felt like embarrassment. What was wrong with Captain Rogers knowing about potential threats? The reason escaped her. Seeing her hesitation, it was up to Coulson after an uncomfortable silence to clarify, which he did in a calm, professional manner. "Individuals born with a genetic mutation with a range yet to be determined. They usually have one ability or are different in appearance: Blue fur, avian features, telepathy, telekinesis, pyrokinesis, large wings and so on. We've created a classification system based on danger potential and drawback. There are currently six categories, ranging from Zeta to Alpha, with Alpha posing the highest risk." He nodded in Wanda's direction. "This one was classified Delta-level."

To be classified like a common criminal was somehow even more embarrassing.

"To change the subject: As I mentioned before, it is my opinion that psych evaluations for individuals who have been in close proximity are necessary." When the witch laid the spear down, the painful pressure on her temples receded, letting her breath a sigh of relief. "I think this staff generates a responsive field that feels somewhat empathic, but also manipulating. It also feels more like a channeling device with only traces of what it was before. It must have been very scary at its height. Still, I can try to ward it, but ..."

Again, it was Jane Foster who interrupted mid-sentence. What a foul habit that woman had developed. "Hold on. If you block the field, then you block the energy source. I need to take measurements. I could use that data to locate residues and traces which could lead us directly to Loki, or even better, finally open a stable Einstein-Rosen-Bridge. You have no idea how long I've waited for … " She obviously stopped herself before throwing around technical terms, which was considerate given that she was close to lecturing. "I need that energy source unlocked."

"I'm sorry, Miss Foster. I'm not experimenting with an unknown magical source that could manipulate an unknown number of people in an unknown magnitude in the middle of New York. These are too many unknowns for my taste." Wanda stated diplomatically, retaining every ounce of poise she possessed, how difficult it may be. She even tried to smile in a friendly manner, but the smile never reached the eyes. "I'm sure that after safety measures are firmly in place, we can find a mutually beneficial solu-"

"How long will it take?" The scientist was outright snappish now.

"Hours, days. Perhaps even a week. I don't know exactly what I'm dealing with. It should be alright, though, the field is mostly dormant at the present ti-"

"Yeah, and while you chant and read your tea leaves, Loki plans his next invasion. Way to go."

"I was under the impression that this was my call to make." Considering what Wanda just saw, she thought that this Loki person was on a standard destructive power trip to take over worlds, but there was also something amiss. She had to investigate further and confirm this suspicion before voicing it, but she was rather sure that the Jötunn himself had been at least influenced by his own equipment, no pun intended. For now however, she had this argument with a reckless scientist in which no compromise offered itself. So she looked at the two silent men in the room to solve this matter. The Agent took the hint, but he just glanced at Captain Rogers, making an offering gesture.

The Captain didn't hesitate a second and addressed Wanda with in a firm manner. "I agree: your call. Safety first." He turned to Jane Foster, still polite and proper, but missing the warmth underneath that came so natural to him. "I'm sorry."

Clearly displeased and frustrated, Jane shrugged, and she couldn't do without throwing a barb. "Very well. I'll get myself a cat then to pass the time." With that, she left the scene in a huff, and to be completely honest, Wanda felt a small amount of relief because of the potential danger averted and presence of willful scientist relieved.

"We're not done here." Steve Rogers still had an air of professionalism and confidence around him while he spoke to the witch. "You said it radiates a manipulating field."

"Weak, but definitely there. Keep your focus up and you will be fine for now."

"This isn't going to cut it. The last time Loki waved that thing around, he controlled people left and right." He looked her straight in the eye. "Good people. We need to know how we can defend against it."

Wanda took a deep breath before carefully weighing her answer. "You can't." Her statement was simple and met by a frown from Captain and Agent alike. "Don't get me wrong; one can deter the untrained, weak and inexperienced, but that's not the category you are asking about. When the situation and the adversary is this powerful, you can only delay the inevitable. With that device fully powered up and used by an accomplished sorcerer, the targeted mind _will_ be overwhelmed. I was trained by Mastermind himself against telepathic illusions since I was a child and regularly targeted by an enchanter for most of my adult life. I'm good." Even though at least Mr. Rogers was unlikely to comprehend the degree of her references, she hoped that her statement wasn't misinterpreted as boasting, but as the matter of fact it was. She had little confidence in her ability to control her magic, but it could never be said that she wasn't well-trained. "But if a powerful telepath or enchanter would try to take over, I couldn't delay the process for more then a few seconds."

"A few seconds can decide a battle." Rogers reminded her with a kind and slightly amused smile. Recalling her own meager combat experience, she inwardly agreed. She also recalled if she could think if there was any reason to withhold her information while a Government-Agent was listening intently. This organization frequently clashed with elements of the supernatural or mutantkind. She hadn't had an ear to the ground the last years and didn't know if S.H.I.E.L.D. was in the market of the unethical in regards to experimentation. Espionage, yes, Assassination, yes, capture and subsequent torture, oh yes. But on the other hand, everyone who tried to invade and control the mind of another person in this manner was probably no better.

"Words are pretty, but demonstration is better." She finally said, pulling up a chair and positioning it in the middle of the room. "You see, the mind is not unlike the body in this matter. Mr. Rogers, would you do me the honors?" She couldn't help but smile as this huge man was apparently struck by sudden shyness as he approached slowly and after some hesitation. "Don't worry, Captain. I assure you, I hold no dominion over the mind."

He laughed nervously and even made the effort of joking. "That's what _you_ say." He didn't object or offered any resistance when she guided him into position ready to sit down on the chair, while the seat pressed into his legs. Not far away, she could see Agent Coulson watching with interest.

Not taking the palms off his shoulders, Wanda looked up to the soldier. "Captain, I'd like you to disobey when I ask you to sit down, yes?" He was clearly bewildered, but nodded in response. The witch now took her time to do up a button on his shirt that had loosened and brushed some imaginary dust from his shoulders. She could see him shift, but he wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, he even seemed to be a little entertained. Only then she took a step back, retaining the air of friendly teasing. "Please sit down, Mr. Rogers."

"Uhm … no?"

Wanda took another step back, closed her eyes and summoned all the strength she could muster, pulled every trick she knew: straightening back and shoulders, lifted her chin, rose to full height and let all the authority, all her will and all the fire she had thought to be forgotten run to every fiber of her being. When she opened her eyes again, she threw all her force of will, all her strength into his face, her voice nothing short of a roar.

"I said **SIT**!"

A moment later, valiant Captain America sat on his chair, looking awfully surprised at her and himself in equal measure. It actually took him a moment to regain his composure, his brow wrinkled in concern and confusion. "What just happened?"

"You tell me, Captain Rogers. I just told you to sit down." Wanda smiled in amusement.

"I didn't see that coming."

"Exactly." Her smile faded as she got down to business to explain what she had wanted to demonstrate in this way. "Your defenses were down, so to speak. Your periphery was breached, your personal space invaded, you were unfocused, lulled into false security and – pardon me for saying so – not taking the situation or me seriously. But worst of all, subconsciously, you never really and truly objected to sit down." She watched closely to make sure that Mr. Rogers wasn't cross with her, but he took it in a sporting manner. No big surprise there. Agent Coulson had raised both eyebrows, but said nothing. "The mind is like the body. If hurt by lingering injury, violence or torture, it will succumb much more easily to assault."

"Like an infection has an easy time when a wound isn't bound." Steve Rogers added pensively.

"Precisely, that's why your emotional training to counter PTSD and general positive disposition is helping the case. But the true danger lies in what a person subconsciously willing to do. A true pacifist, even if fully mind-controlled, can never be forced to kill if it absolutely disagrees with his nature. The key lies in conditioning yourself, to affirm your own nature and turn it against the invader. It's not "I will not bow.", as the sub-conscience will only hear "bow". It's rather "I will stand my ground.", then it hears "mine". It must be that simple."

There was a short and pensive silence, and while Mr. Rogers stroked his chin, Agent Coulson's grip around his file tightened and he addressed the witch with a mixture of amusement and enlightenment on his face. "Can you work out a training program?"

"I can devise a supplemental for the training program I suspect your agents receive."

"That'd be great. Thank you." After that, Agent Coulson bid his goodbye. Leaving Wanda and Steve Rogers in the lab, the latter still sitting on his chair and contemplating the situation.

"So he was right." Captain Rogers' looked not only pondering anymore, but even a little disheartened.

"I beg your pardon?"

He raised his head, but otherwise, he had slumped himself on a rather comfortable position on his chair. He tried to search for words, even uttered a brief laugh of helplessness. "Well … someone said that humanity craved subjugation. That's it, isn't it? When all thoughts are wiped away, human nature just wants to be commanded."

"What? That's rubbish!" Wanda could barely withhold a laugh. "Humanity craves to be fed, appreciated and explore. Don't you even know the basics, Captain?" Her smile just broadened as she offered a helping hand to rise. "Who said that?"

At first, it looked like the soldier had a long explanation for her in store. In the last moment however, he thought the better of it and shook his head, gladly excepting her extended hand to rise from the chair. "An idiot." He forced himself to smile. "A raving idiot. I'm one as well to even listen to him."

"Misanthropy just doesn't deserve to take root."

"Another thing, though … you said that mind control can't change a person." He back-pedaled to watch for her approval, and was simply gestured to go on. "What about Barton?"

Ah. That was the way the wind was blowing. Clint had privately confided with Wanda already on this subject; he had been dominated by this very device she was examining, and had already described in detail what had happened to him. But she had thought the mind-controlling powers originally coming from the wielder of the scepter, but this was not the case. That wasn't the Captain's question, however, and the question was something very private, so she shook her head. "I know what you speak of, but I don't discuss my friends' profile with …" Strangers? Random charming army officers? She had to settle on something before the silence became awkward. "... acquaintances."

To her surprise, Steve Rogers smiled at her briefly in a way that seemed appreciative and raised his hands defensively. "It's not about profiles, honestly. But … understand: I'm his commanding officer. His well-being's my responsibility. I've already talked about this with him and he's quite open."

What did he want from her, then?

He wasn't so much struggling for words as she suspected he would. Indeed, when she talked with him, he seemed to switch between a shy boy and a straight and righteous soldier who was able and accustomed to command. So he continued firmly. "He told me everything he could. What I want from you is another opinion, something that Barton might not even know himself. Is that all right?"

Was it? On one hand, she didn't like the thought of sharing her knowledge about the person who supported her time and time again, but on the other hand, Captain Rogers obviously genuinely cared about Clint. Wanda decided that she still considered it a kind of betrayal to just spill everything and opted to tell the Captain what he already knew, but hadn't considered before.

"Captain Rogers, you are a war veteran. What can you tell me about the personality of a classical sniper?"

He briefly furrowed his brow, but straightened his shoulders and folded his hands behind his back, as if in recital. "Intelligent, cool head even under heavy fire. Reliable. Efficient. Patient. It's odd … they go to war, kill people in spades and then go drinking a beer like nothing's happened."

"Their profiles all look similar. Also, they are not in a great danger to get shell-shocked. But tell me, have you ever heard what happens when a sniper cracks?"

He shook his head. "I didn't happen to me or my unit, but I've heard a story. Don't know if it's true." When he saw her questioning look, he elaborated. "In a recon unit, the sniper just went dingo and disappeared into the woods. Then he hunted his own unit down, one by one. The weakest first, then he worked himself through to the strongest. Only two people were left in the end."

Wanda nodded slowly - that was exactly what was to be expected if the situation was too much for a person to handle. "What did he do, then? What part of his nature did he appeal to?"

It didn't take him long to find the answer, although he expressed it as though he was solving a riddle for himself. "A … hunter. Going for the kill, not for battle."

"And that is exactly what Hawkeye is at the end of the day." Wanda concluded solemnly. "He is as loyal and level-headed as your next sniper in battle, but at heart, he's a predator." One that enjoys the fruit of his labor and takes an intellectual satisfaction from a job well and efficiently done, but she kept that one to herself. "But never forget what Clint Barton respects most: _Competence_. When he sees something or someone who displays a great deal of competence, he wants to keep and preserve it." He will either join what he perceives as competence, or want to hunt it down. Morals didn't matter much in this, but that was something she didn't dare to tell the good-hearted captain. When the hunt was open, Clint Barton didn't want it to end. Simple as that. "But you knew that already, no?"

The soldier before her nodded slowly. "You didn't tell me anything new, I guess." Of course he had seen through her little scheme, he wasn't stupid. It was nice for him to play along, perhaps to appease her conscience, perhaps to confirm his supposed knowledge. It didn't matter much, she still felt a little guilty.

"I would like to keep that between ourselves, if you don't mind."

"Sure thing." She half-expected him to turn into the shy boy again, but his confidence didn't falter; he remained sure of himself when he extended his hand to her. "I'm Steve, by the way."

Evidently, he had not forgotten about being called an acquaintance. Even if he was just that, who was she to refuse such a charming gesture that felt as genuine as the whole man did? "Wanda." She exclaimed, shaking his hand in confirmation. He gave her hand one last, gentle squeeze, then left her to her pile of work.

* * *

_A/N It has been over a month, but here it is at last. I got frustrated a lot with this chapter and I think I actually did a little happy dance when it was finally done. I hope you enjoyed it anyway :)_


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